Not the lemon balm. Not the hydrangeas.
Not the swollen cucumbers left on the vine.
Not the flinty caw of the crows
in the cedar, striking and
striking without spark.
Not the calendula, neither the
spearmint. Not the chives.
Not the chicken feathers
portending violence or theft.
Not the dull razor on the
edge of the bathtub, nor the
bathtub tile with its dark bloom
of mildew menacing the grout.
Not this verdant house.
Not the girl who moves through this
verdant house like mist clinging to
a column of steel.
Not the whispering fennel.
Not the basil, gone to seed.
Not the gullet full of tap water.
Not the caltrop in the carrot bed.
Believe me when I tell you,
I have tried.