Digging in the backyard for the first time
outside the bounds of garden, I feel
earth not so dry, not so grainy,
like one substance from the soaking.
In her chair Mother naps and no one watches.
What might I find, once I tear the hide
of grass away? I claw down, deep
as I can reach. Something squishes
in my hand. What if I hold a hidden organ
of the quivering world? Before I can run
inside, rain freezes to nails, sun stumbles
and falls. Mountains, like scowling faces,
turn toward me. From what vital
bladder or skull, I dread, without such
words, have I squeezed bile, brain,
or the unknown heart of the day?