I’m my father’s green thumb
turned hard from the weeding,
plucking out the overgrown.
They whimper at my hand,
clinging to Earth, damp with dawn.
I cry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

The roots surrender.
This corpse at my palm-
I place into the basket.

When I walk home
I cry with the writhe of an earthworm
growing crisp on hot pavement.
I want to take it to the farm,
let it twirl around my little finger
and lead it back to softness.

Kimilee Norman-Goins writes humbly from New York, NY, supported by her two rescue dogs and (non-rescue) wife. She is still trying to decide which non-dairy milk is superior: almond, oat, or coconut. Her work can be found in New York Quarterly, The Florida Review, The Showbear Family Circus, Passengers Journal, The Bangalore Review, For Women Who Roar, and hung up on her mother’s fridge.