Pulling Weeds
by Ed Brickell
A slow twist of the wrist, the skin of the earth rips
With a whisper of tearing canvas, dozens of tiny fingers
Unwilling to let go, branching into the lung diagram
From your oncologist’s office, sometimes an earthworm
Squirming in the shuddering root ball, dying of sunlight.
Holding so much desperation, such clotted will to live
Returns me to the foggy chaos of the calving,
The vet winching clogged life from the bellowing cow
Until it finally plopped steaming by her thrashing legs,
Persisting in the frozen morning where I watched,
Wide-eyed, the battle of what he ratcheted to life.
“Find a surgeon to cut that clean out,”
The ER doctor drawled, holding that first x-ray,
But sometimes they resist our determined tug and twist.
I will always see them as I pass the lawns of neighbors,
Rogue constellations spawning, jagged refugees
Reaching for the life we want for others,
Hunger deeper than our hands can pull.
Ed Brickell (he/him) lives in Dallas, Texas with two cats, Harper and Maya. He reads and writes, hikes and watches birds, and is a mildly anxious supporter of Liverpool FC. His poems have appeared or will appear soon in Hiram Poetry Review, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Modern Haiku, Loch Raven Review, and other publications. You can find his recently published poetry at shortsurpriselife.com.
