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.
Hawaii Pacific Review 