Stone by stone, we dismantled the wall,
tossing each piece of bluestone
into a wheelbarrow–our heaviest love notes.
We hacked away the shrubs,
our hands holding tight to what was left,
heaving and cursing until the roots came up
clinging dirt, dangling like a placenta,
leaving a pair of island universes,
shallow and wide.
And I never meant for this to be about me,
but that is how I am–a cedar waxwing
crashing into a window, saliva
and wisps of snow-gray feathers
slopped across the glass. A wrecked body
lying stunned in the walkway, legs drawn in.
What a spectacle we make
pounding dirt from the roots,
groaning like two priests in confession,
limping along with pebbles in our shoes.
We work until the garden is a crèche
writhing with worms and grubs.
Until the amber light beams
from our faces, and we shimmer
with mica and reconciliation
