I talked to every flower in the yard,
naming them. They stood at attention, waiting
for roll call. When I milked a cow it spurt out
nothing of value, clear liquid dashed
in the mud. I couldn’t pull hard at her—
her skin hung loose into her own dung.
When I moved aside she replaced me
with a statue of brown sludge, made
in my likeness. On the farm, a girl with my same name
wore a pouch around her neck. All summer I asked her
to open it. Instead, she taught me how to cut around a salad
so it looked like you ate it. Years later,
she would try to cut an avocado and open her hand
instead. The doctor gave her pills for it
that she never stopped taking. On the last day of August
she grinned, slowly opened the pouch.
I stood at attention, waiting.