After the move, I inherited a garden—
every bed overgrowing its edging stonesÂ
with weed and tangling vine, withered tendrilsÂ
and twisted thorns. So I tear out their coilÂ
and suffocation, break up and layer the earth—
cardboard, dead leaves, topsoil, mulch—
redefining the boundaries by churning the soilÂ
and clothing it with what is new.
But old friend—we garden differently.Â
You’re tearing through hibiscus and hedgerowÂ
while I dig through the loam for answers.
As it is, I have forced raw fingerprints past the crustÂ
and scooped away the soil in search of the foul seedÂ
that you planted, that scarred the ground between us.Â
No one warned me how it would sprout—enraged—
out of the earth, vines spiraling to choke and ensnare.Â
It grows its yellow and orange fruit: round, bruised,Â
glittering with the acrid dew of resentment. In the end,Â
burial is the final labor of bitterness
and every night, you’re lost in the processÂ
of carving a grave into your front yardÂ
with shovel, spade, and spite.Â
But my hands are filthy, wrist deep in the slick gritÂ
of this soil, trying to excise this bilious root.
I can’t bring myself to pretend the earth is not upturned.
Ian C. Williams is a poet and teacher from Appalachia. He is also the editor-in-chief for Jarfly: A Poetry Magazine. In 2019, Williams received a Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Oklahoma State University, and his debut full-length collection of poems, Every Wreckage, is forthcoming from Fernwood Press in 2023. He currently lives with his wife and two sons in Fairmont, West Virginia.