I ask her where to dig, and she leads me
to a place where soil is ripe,
where roots will have space to spread.
I plant potential between swaying trees.
Shovel minces stone, sod and debris.
Crows swear like bored teenagers,
spitting sleaze and half-chewed seeds.
Sweat upon my brow a healthy bloom
of dew for noonday sun,
absently brushed by mud-caked hand
before beads can gather and run.
Streaks embellish fleshy furrows
a mosquito perceives as runway.
It whines like micro-jumbo-jet,
screaming towards its last day.
I ask her where to water, as she spanks mosquito
bloated with stolen blood.
Broken carcass spins down to join seeds.
Green thumb points
to where smeared body concedes.
Touched by her faith, I commence to pour,
washing life over death.
c) Chris Butler 2004
