The Plot

by Matthew Bruce

We lie with compost squeezed
between our fingers. Honey-
dew, cantaloupe rinds make
small tombstones. Black-
banana mash leaks boozy
gas into the rosemary.

We plant our tongues and stoke
our cinders. Pulp and cleave,
fingers smack-red with drunk
insistence. This is for the cult
of everyday garbage we tend
to call a garden.

 

Matthew Bruce’s¬†writing can be found in West Branch, At Length, Sixth Finch, The Cincinnati Review, The Common, The Carolina Quarterly, and Bayou, among others. He lives in Minneapolis.

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