The Night Garden
I grow tomatoes
to lure their midnight worms.
I assign black hours to watching.
At the right line of colorless dark
the faceless stumps of fat seep out
those legs mere bumps on bellies
those bellies dragging through dirt.
In daytime I would name green.
They overeat. They eat themselves taut
and still they eat
like they have never seen my mirrors
like their cabinets have no locks.
The tomatoes ungrow
aborted by these my worms.
My legs ungrow
drained and scathed
by the ticks
who have come to my pested feast
and found me splayed for tasting.
At dawn when the worms retreat
just as they would resume the color green
I knife around my fat full ticks
throw the tiny chunks garden-ward.
I pick my scars.
All You Can Eat
Each day was a sacrifice
from my side.
No need for eagles
when I could claw out my own liver
and scatter chunks to the stones below
for the ugly animals
of my untended land.
Scavengers scurried forth
while I closed my eyes tight against
the hot work of reproducing the guts I gave away.
The creatures were always already gone
when I looked.
I dreamt of their gratitude
but did not expect it:
I would have settled for a fattened snake
glancing up with his tongue
as if to consider
whether something like me
could be a source of food.
Jessica L. Walsh is a poet and professor living in suburban Chicago. Her first book is How to Break My Neck (ELJ Publications).