In Place
by Cheryl Dumesnil
On the sixth day, I soak
cotton balls in peppermint oil
and stake them into mounds
the gophers have erupted
in the garden, tunnels drawn
from one blueberry bush
to the next, the unsteady
lines of a kindergartener’s
dot-to-dot. How will we feed
the hungry children now
that the schools have closed?
In the house, my wife attends
an online tutorial about
food-borne pathogens
while across the yard our kids
sift through gravel beneath
the trampoline, picking out
magnetic words scattered
by last night’s wind:
kindle grace fierce ly
The gophers—I don’t know
if they’re after worms
or the roots of these bushes
teeming with white blossoms
and baby blues. I sprinkle oil
at the base of each plant
just in case, then join the kids
searching through pebbles:
utopia in your apocalyptic
mouth
