Garden

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My fingers and chest

caked with black

sandy soil

from earth not meant for

building.

Caloosa Indians dug these

canals with shells.

Modern men arrived

with trucks and

diggers for profit.

You bend your lithe body

over freshly tilled

soil – my head fills

with air and hangs

above the surface

of earth;

my fire swells.

(later)

Dirty, I stand naked

in the garage while

you ruminate about

the garden.

I think I want more mulch,

you say.

I think about pressing

myself against your

pink silk.

Tonight I’ll curl next to

you and drape my

arm around

your body,

holding you like a cosseted

bird.

Kyle Doty

Kyle Doty is a 7th grade ELA teacher and poet. His debut book of poetry, Hush, Don't Tell Nobody, was published in early 2015 by Apprentice House. You can learn more about him at kyledotypoetry.wordpress.com

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