TO HEED THE WEATHERMAN
Tess and a friend with their latest salad plantings, says the undated article I found on
Google when the sun was too hot and I was out of fresh vegetables. It
tells me about their lead-contaminated soil, all their
sorting and
measuring and
“OK”ing et cetera.
I hear about the chickens in the article: they enjoy eating excess farm vegetables / as if
we don’t all secretly wish to be farmers. To protect nearby children from possible soil-
born lead dust, woodchips cover every surface in their lot front. I have taken on similar
habits, spilling soil down my front steps to cover all concrete surfaces. On two melatonin
and low blood circulation, I dream of a home intrusion by the woman I used to split a t-
shirt drawer with and must check the steps for footprints to
be sure of her absence / looking for
you tonight in the hills of me.
Taking advantage of urban closeness, these farmers encourage their neighbors to
full / indirect / sun / water twice a week / organic fertilizer or use compost / let it / drain.
We heed with new reverence during high stakes: garden as anti-grocery / all-organic
/ singular.
The neighbors blare techno music and talk. This gathering is an absurd violation of law
and I long to turn them in. I count seven in the yard and understand the gravity of
healing: all parties must comply.
Terrible feels fresh—right off the printing presses—unrecognizable by September’s
standard. On hold with Oxford English to get clarification that this is a collective
sensation. I hang up in the middle of the night. 2 AM as absurd customer service and a
resounding no. I hum their hold tune as
anthem
for the next month. Humming / I need / help / my stomach does not recognize lonely or
longing this month,
plastered across
the bathroom floor. I will not open the door but I will thank you through the window.
Do not expect any more than this gesture / an anti-healing / a protesting of this loss / a
processing with hands tied
/ to let someone in is to cross the picket line.
Do not call my father. Do not attach my name to this poem
/ I will dig ten holes in the ground.
Stephanie Pierson is a prose reader for Denver Quarterly and is based in Denver. She studies creative writing at the University of Denver and makes home with a rambunctious Pointer. Some of her critical work can be found at the Tibet Post.