Grit

The hydrangea was a knot

of grey wood and spite.

I pulled until the earth

gave up its hold.

Under the fluorescent bulb,

my hands look like

they belong to a stranger.

Black silt packed tight

into the crescents of the nails.

The soap is a white nub.

The water runs clear,

but the half-moon of the thumb

stays dark.

A record of the work

no one asked me to do.