america's backyard by Tara Davoodi

as i sit there, digging

i can't help but think

that all of this is futile.

scooping out soil from

the embalmed earth,

planting rotten seeds.

ancient stones, quartz and granite

recovered in sweaty palms

darkness burrowed under fingernails,

nothing but wild exiles

for this ground to swallow.

i am only digging holes

in this yard, in this soil

i thought was my soil,

in this land i thought

was my land, in this america,

i dig up nothing but pain.

give it a couple of weeks

and this poison loam will eat up

those leaves, yank them back into earth

soft petals choking, stems falling—

someone will mistake weeds for blooms

and call it eden.

The online publications Literary Yard and What Rough Beast previously published this poem.