i restart my tomato garden
in a halved oatmilk carton,

stuffed between teakwood
kingfisher and propagated

peperomia on east most
window. i spend hours and

forty-six dollars on a red
covered book that promised

thriving indoor heirlooms.
paige told me to celebrate

the little wins. this morning
i am alive and so i sit cross

legged beneath the window
to sniff the mycelial yellow

blooms that indicate a future
harvest. a reason for bees.

the last tomato garden i had
was shoved behind wasp

bloated grill and stunted by
dirt unturned since the sixties.  

the last tomato garden i had
is six years gone, six years

without the smell of trichome
stippled stems to keep the shit

from clinging to vibrissae.

             a year of wrestling the ooze
             leaking from mother and
             grandmother’s thinned skin.

             a year of eiffeling piss pad
             and diaper boxes.

             a year of moping chowder
             dribble from arid lips.

             a year fracking contentment
             from the sprain of iowa city’s
             sparrow population.

             a year of licking the sales
             floor salty taint of the man
             who paid my rent.

             a year of tattooing nightshade’s
             daughters on my forearm.

             i name the first star-splayed

flower tabitha, the next denzel.
when i catch the sun squirreling

away from the sisters’ fragile
sprout, i move them across

the country of my apartment.
the more light, the more fruit.