I remember the stringy roots, they spread beneath the soil, I dig them up. I remember your grey hair, almost bald, how yellow you look. I unearthed a deep orange chrysalis and buried it again. While roots so white; a living sexual white, whiter than the white of the moon and the earth; so dark, so damp from yesterday’s rain.
And the honeysuckle of your faces as you complained about the talent contest. And the numerous bulbs of the bluebell that popped up like buoys, the earth dust that wanted to touch the moon, how depressed I felt digging through the detritus of life, the broken down green cells, the eyeballs of prehistoric man, the meteorites, the demolished houses that stood here before the war.
Always you must offer me food, I want more than food; I want to be human I am still only a thing unearthed by your garden fork, at midnight, under a full moon. Your wrinkles here begin to grow; they are a creeping plant growing abundantly against the side of the garden wall. I cut them back, but they continue to spread. A green caterpillar squirming, in the clumps of earth, no bigger than a nail clipping.
The mysterious cats are back, you say, the fox has gone, equally mysteriously. When you go into the garden you are mobbed by a single raven. I find a wooden cross underneath the rosebush. I pull the green scalps of grass out of the earth and fork it over. The sweat is pouring off me into the earth. Next door a woman in a bikini reclining upon a sun bed makes fun of her boyfriend. There is a dream like quality in the earth as I dig it, I fall into a trance, a spell. Now I ask how many such earth’s are there, and how many such gardens does humanity have to dig.