The Yard

The hydrangea was a dead stick

stuck in the ice of the plastic pot.

I pulled until the root ball

tore away with a dry, wooden snap.

Now, in the kitchen, the overhead bulb

is too white. It shows the cracks

in my knuckles, the way the skin

bunches like a cheap curtain.

There is a crescent of black

under each nail.

When I set the table,

a single grain of cold grit

clicks against the plate.