In the backyard is a plow.
No one knows quite what to do with it.
It sits with its wood rotting
and its iron rusted
as a sculptural piece in a flowerbed.
There’s also a grave for a hamster named Dinky,
a stone, here by the plow,
painted with neon green and pink fingerpaint.
The stars are silent.
My grandmother would not agree with the situation.
She would not have any understanding of it.
Her wrists would bleed and her feet would hurt.
She would not discuss a thing.
She would be worried to be in this place.
Her eyes would twitch and her brow would crinkle.
It’d be a look your gut could decipher.
I’m pretty damn scared right now to look at the plow.
I can’t look up.
I can’t look at the garden or the birdbath.
I know the oak trees stand there brooding over me,
“What the fuck are you people doing?”
I don’t know who is wrong.
If anyone can even be wrong anymore?
If we can even do this or that?
I think genetics are dead or
they are living.
I don’t think we can.
I am a box.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin