Late last night, barefoot
in my pink nightgown,
I took a spade to the back yard.
Knee-deep in crabgrass, kneading dirt
like dough, I buried your past.

I chose the plot carefully,
between carrot seedlings
and fledgling tomato vines,
and into it I dropped
letters, ticket stubs, pictures,
jewelry -- anything
from your past, your life
without me. I added
three spinach seeds
to the hole, covered them,
crept inside to wash my feet.

In a month, I'll serve you a salad
of spinach and carrots and
cherry tomatoes. You'll complain
that it is bitter, that you
don't like leafy greens,
but you'll eat it.

And I will watch, knowing
that deep inside you
your past will be turning to waste,
churning towards your intestines,
irreparably changed
from something that sustains you
into shit.