I used to know your place in the dirt

by Gal Snir

when our eyelids were flowers and our minds were thick bark 

with ridges that curved — ribbons on the most exquisite of gifts.

During then, the ground was a place to grow words from

and deadweights more like roots and root systems

extending down Earth’s crinkly covering 

where tomato & basil seeds sweetly bud.

They call it companion planting.

Meaning anecdotal wisdom.

Indicating tried & true.

I employed this truth like a cancer.

Planted basil seeds until basil seeds

were nowhere to be found 

and blamed the swelling of green tomatoes

on their absence.

It is easier to indulge in an abundance of emptiness 

over an abundance itself.

Now, I stand over dead ground surrounded by winds 

and white walls 

and white-knuckles

made for punching.

Now, hands are meant to punch.

Hands are not meant to dig.

Now no more composted words.

Now no more people seeds.

No earthlier things to replant.

Gal Snir lives in Seattle, WA. She works as a medical assistant for a small primary care practice in the city. She enjoys writing poetry that peers into the bower of the self and explores cycles of grief, loss, and change. When she’s not suffering for her art or studying for the MCAT, she likes to annoy her sweet dog, Angel.