backyard song

Since it’s just me here I’ve

found the back and stayed

there most of the time, in

rain and snow and the

no-moon nights, dodging the front

I used to put up like a yard

gussied and groomed, all

edged and flower-lined, my

bottled life.

Uncorked, I had a thought: I

want the want

I dreamed of wanting once, a

quarter cup of sneak-peek

at what prowls in the back, at

what sings in the

wet rag space behind the garage, back

where the rabbits nest, where

I smell something soupish, sour and dank and it’s

filled with weeds like rough

cat tongues and

the wind is unfostered, untended,

now that it’s just me here and

I am so hungry

for the song that grows tall like a weed

grows, and grows.

When I was a

little girl

my ma said a woman gets

tired and sick

of the front yard, of

kissing the backside of a

rose.