Don’t talk about your garden.
We all have our own kale starts in our yards.

Don’t talk about invasive species. I’m down to ice
in my biodegradable cup & tumble mustard buds thrive in the melt—

Everyone at Camel’s Back wears sandals with toe straps. The slope still reigns
formidable. I descend perfectly only when alone; please don’t

say hello. Not enough blackberries for you to forage, too.

Don’t say you’ll be my friend. Bouquets take time. Health requires

a schedule & I can’t see you every happy hour. At home, I choose curtains
that let in the light but don’t let you onto my shadow, its salad, its plastic

fork that digs for the best walnut & mizuna.
What is spring to a thatch of dead

trees & what is it to me if I can’t be the only woman sliding fast down rubber
soles with an anklet hand-braided at summer camp? My past-selves sat

in cabin corners with spiders & mold. The other campers canoed. I dyed my hair
pink with the illusion Manic Panic was made for me & I would be forever incongruous