I’m dead-heading marigolds
in a pot on the porch,
pinching off what’s dried,
no longer useful, done—

for the whisper of a new bud,
yellow in a small green fist.
And when I’ve pruned it all—
every last thing, I keep going,

leaving only monogrammed
cereal bowls, a set of plates
with family initials, a torn
baby book and bags of used

boy clothes, the broken Ford,
chipped baseball trophies
on the closet shelf—
I prune until all that’s left
is earth in my hands.

My Soul Shudders In and Out of my Body like a Microscope In and Out of Focus
The Daughter of Jairus