green

i tell the mailbox to kneel,
it's prayer time. a mouthful of 
grass & dirt. the peonies. 
my right thigh is a perforated 
surface where needles trip
in & out like trows. the big
rusted shovel leaned up against
the garage door. the burial
of chicken bones & bottle caps,
making ancient. who will
be the time capsule & who 
the gardener. i crouch down
to talk to my eight-year-old self 
with her rusted knees. she's digging
in my parents 1/2 acre backyard,
sandwiched by corn & soybean fields.
i explain that i've grown up to have
a backyard the size of a postage
stamp i would have how killed her.
she builds an apple orchard
out of push-pins. i steal her,
wrap her up like a sapling from
the nursery off 222 where my father
& i would pick out flowers for
the church garden, three springs
in a row. am i a perennial? 
do i grow up? we set to work.
i listen to her because she knows
better. there's a chorus
of shovels that fall from the
grey cloud, driveway-clang. 
a car alarm from inside the garage.
hush, we're digging. first,
the edges: the quilt undone one
square at a time-- all fray & 
foliage, earth bursting into 
onion grass, wild & tall, up to 
my neck. oh cicada do you
live in new york city or 
are you waiting another 17
years to prick the air
with your legs again? she takes
the tape measure as i explain
that i'm a boy now so i should
do it. she disagrees & measures
the corners of green. from
there we pull the earth like a 
roll of wrapping paper. 
first into a hill & then a turn
in a gravel road: the path 
where at night the foxes
come to eat honeydew, where 
the soybeans speak into headphones.
i walk, alone. october a brother
who's too far away. have i ever
told you how much i want to plant
a garden? i see us laying
in the small-square backyard.
i show you my eight-year-old
self but i introduce her as my sister.
you know i'm lying but you go
along with it. all up us, staring
up at a hazy grey sky that's supposed
to have more stars. she plants
them. i say
add a hydrangea bush for my mother.
you as for a rhododendron.  
a tree that blooms with syringes
takes root by the garage. 
the tree is a boy.