Back by the compost, he raises a mattock
and hacks at the roots of clenching vines,
then stuffs his kill in a large clay pot
until he’s satisfied—though not
(not ever) done. Small purple stars,
each with a yellow eye, stare up
from where they weren’t just last spring.
It’s not enough to match their pace.
His little woods, shot through with bars
of slanting light, is under siege.
Gas sloshes from a metal can;
he lets the wind disperse its vapors
then drops a match. Tall helices
of flame rise from the pot. The man
is my father, but maybe not for long.
Months later, as the sky collapses
flake by flake, he’ll check his work
and find the long wires that appear
from snow, their seedpods spent and gaping.
Harmless elsewhere; murderous here.