Fertilizer

Cora Hyatt

Spring begins with clearing our dead, 

the remnants of last summer’s harvest 

reduced to dry stems. 

“good morning”

I greet the white bugs that I cannot name. 

I speak to the weeds in their mother tongue, 

I tell them 

“we can still be friends”

The flowers love me so, 

the strawberry plants that have yet to flower 

fail to acknowledge me but turn my way 

as if I am the sun, 

whose jealousy burns my back red. 

I apologize. I thank her. 

I plant seed after seed 

into the warm April dirt. 

I’ve learned, 

all soil on earth is the same, 

so long as you dig deep enough. 

Eventually, your trowel will find its way 

into someone’s grave. 

My father’s mother’s father 

takes hold of the carnations, 

the red flower of the revolution, 

and tucks them into his lapel, 

forever marching toward a war that is already through. 

Dig deeper than the roots can reach 

and there is my far off aunt, 

however many times and years removed, 

whose fingernails are bitten down and caked in mud, 

whose hands are marked with calluses, 

resting finally, napping among the worms, 

where she will sleep forever. 

I let her rest. 

I water the blooming roses 

and watch the petals gleam in the sunlight.