Against the tree you tie me so
that I can't see
the graveyard. Because
we have no
rope or galvanized utility
chain remaining from
the wedding, you bind
my chest and thin
thoracic nerves to the rooted
set of our wet
yard with a badminton net
I purchased
during the recently inflated
threat of government
shutdown. The light left
leaning leased shadows
through the leaves casts
my frame a static finger
in the knuckle
of the earth. Tight
nylon on my only
running organ grows to mark
the time between
the neighbors' screams and
what you're doing
with the shovel. When I try
to, I can hear the sound
of your slight breasts dressed
river-blessed in sports
bra, sod pulling dirt rock
forming us a hole.
