Our Roots

her nose, it summed

us up, and the garden she built, cupped, and patted

in the backyard.

washing her hands with the soil, she inhaled.

“what do our roots smell like?”

in the background, I asked her.

of course, she can recall it, and I can recall that

we nearly married ourselves to that life, but

she never did answer me, and I forgot that

I ever wanted to know before long.

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