I Suspect You Can Feel It
an inherited carry-on of roots
and knucklebones, a dedication
to drought, clay soil and a son
who still tends to his mother’s
vegetable garden in the dark.
There is always a time to send
him back down to the south,
missing the metropolis, the road
his only cross. It’s not about aesthetics,
the delicate crawl across vocal cords,
swaying stalks in bleak, white
mornings, cold hands and cold skin —
it’s about kneading the soil
like warm risen baker’s bread,
before the rows of lettuce leaves
are littered with the radiation of the city
lights, too heavy for the moon.