done in

Nothing much bigger than my fist survives 

very long in the astringent earth beneath 

the cedars we planted to buffer noise 

and shadow the grim summer light.

Defying their nursery labels 

            —long-blooming. acid-loving. drought resistant.— 

and incongruent alkalinities suggested by my neighbor 

            —eggshells. dolomite dust. mats clawed from 

            the hairbrush.—

the flowers die, or make pretense of dying, 

comfortable in their ridged, ropy hides. 

Their desiccations make it hard to unhear the swish 

of extinction's arrival. And from there, wondering how 

to dwell here if my husband is first to go. Will I end up 

done in by uncoupled lethargy, arguing with snapdragons 

too lazy to fight for their own lives? I try to make up 

the difference for them, for us, but it’s useless: 

no potion or silence can lift the weight of next year’s 

sun or this year’s uncertain bloom.

—Calling All Poets 25th Anniversary Anthology, Spring 2024