A broken tree, propped by 2x4s, won’t die and lies
across your collapsed fence. Your brazen sunflowers,
pubescent and not yet flowered, nod. Corn, too dense and tasseling,
hisses in the breeze. We are obligated to each other,
you, belching out buckets of jalapeños and German thyme
each day that I don’t know what to do with,
your dismemberment feeding me, my offspring,
my lovers, this kitchen roiling your death into our life.
I cannot tell her to leave because she loves you
so much; though, your watermelons, plucked too soon
by her excitement, are aborted and inedible on the old
wooden table. She does not take good care of either of us
no matter how much we give her, and we cannot help
each other, you rooted and mute, me sitting here
looking at my hands. Stacks of rain-soaked cardboard
intended to be lasagnaed for the worms and weed prevention
pile up beside the shed. I look at you, cucumbers too large,
turning bitter yellow. You look at me, about the same.