like a freshly dug grave, the way the earth, disturbed smells. i like it raw, on my knees, baby, you know- on my knees in the dirt, pulling plants out of the earth — which ones are the weeds, sometimes honestly i don’t know and i don’t care, when i’m in the mood baby, when i’ve got that feeling i’m an angry kind of god and all i want is oblivion. i curl my hand, so elegant, imagine it, around some thick stalk and pull, sap running down my wrist.

the ants come boiling up angrier even than i am out of the socket.