potluck but with dirt

everyone brings their own
dug from the yard
bought from big warm bags at the hardware store
scooped from beneath a favorite tree
cull from under a bed
removed from the floor of a closet 
ladled from the park with a silver spoon 
the guests arrive on my porch 
carrying pales & fine china.
no one talks. 
everyone looks stoic because they've never
done this before.
pour out their containers on the carpet
one at a time & i eye up the selection.
my favorite type of dirt 
is rich dark soil, the kind you 
want to plant you hands in
& see what they might grow into 
if left with that texture for too long.
we add layers till the floor is thick
with different blotches on dirt
outside the trees peer in & are jealous.
we're not sure why we're doing this
at least not yet. 
i never knew any of these people
i just made a flyer that said
"dirt potluck" & they came. 
some plant their eyes, removing them
carefully with their shovels or spoons.
some plant a tooth, making
a hole in the dirt to place it.
others, like me want to bury
more than just appendages.
i take whole photograph & cover them
& then i move on to necklaces & rings
& vases & coffee mugs & books--
all tucked under dirt.
the thing about a potluck is there's 
something for everyone
the dirt mingles & urges each
object to burst-- 
leaves, necks, wings.
my objects because a skeleton
in the dirt & we work to dig it up
while other people's body parts
become a see-saw, a fig tree,
& a lamp post. the potluck seems
just like none sense
like a strange mishap
but it was what we needed &
me & the other people weep
for our dirt.
we lay down in our dirt
& feel the warmth wriggling through 
feel the dirt almost as another being.
i take fistfuls of dirt & fill my pockets.
the guests follow my lead & do the same,
helping each other get ready to 
remove what they have grown. 
i should have asked for help cleaning up
but then there's more soil for me 
& i reach in to see one 
of those great bones peer out at me.