The Garden Leftover

The orange skin is sprayed with oil,

the zest stinging the small cuts on my knuckles.

I spent three hours on my knees behind the shed,

the trowel snapped like a dry twig in the mud.

I had to dig the pipe out with my hands,

pulling up clumps of gray clay and hair.

Now, even after the soap and the brush,

the dirt has made a home for itself.

Ten black crescent moons

staring back at me from the table.

It doesn't matter how hard I scrub,

the yard is part of my anatomy now.