Another version of me
                                        thought every stone precious,

                                        gave even the kitchen herbs
                                        names. Since September

                                        I've been a ruined house, only
                                        newly shaken loose by

                                        echoes. Chasing sentences
                                        to their ends, herding words

                                        with a leaf-blower: gentle
                                        but blunt, and loud.

I test the soil. I measure 
the temperature. I know

I've lost, but not exactly what.
Weeds metastasize faster

than I can pluck them.
I deam of a snail shell

enclosing me; I dream of
a gun I can't stop firing.

I knew what I was getting
into. There came a day

                                        when my daughter first
                                        touched grass. My only job

                                        is memory: remember the grass,
                                        with the beetles

                                        edging the blades? Remember
                                        the poppy's black beauty marks.

                                        Another version of me
                                        remembers. Another version

died on the bathroom
floor. On my knees

in the garden I can hear
the clock bells ring. I can wield

my memory like a weeding tool—
two-pronged, metal, and light.

I can re-make your face, rehearse
history, and call it whatever I want.