Underneath

The weed looked easy. Just a stalk,

small green thing I could pinch between two fingers

and yank free.

But the root came with it—

thick, pale, tangled deep enough

to hold the soil like it had teeth.

I pulled. The root pulled back.

Both hands. The weed still holding.

When it finally gave,

the root mass was almost the size

of what I'd been looking at above ground.

Dripping with dark soil. Still gripping the air

like it might find purchase again.

I stood there holding it,

this enormous thing that had been doing its work

under the dirt, under my attention,

anchoring something I barely saw

to everything I couldn't.

That's the part that stays.

Not that it was hidden.

But that it was always stronger

than the visible part.

That what I pulled at the surface

was just the small permission

the plant had given me—

let me show you the weight

of what holds me down.