Particular Words in a Specific Order

I planted a splinter in the yard
at 8 o’clock last night.
it drained the grass, so I
watered it with cut-up oranges
and bell peppers to take away the ache.

there was this smell to it all,
like citrus soaked in sea;
it made me want to remember her
that splinter grew into a tree
and we laughed at the name,
how it emerged from the shatter
as we did.

the humor of it was the only thing
keeping her buried – that and the
dirt, and what the splinters were before
the long nights binge streaming down
towards styx. the seeds of it floated to the top

when we were gone, twisting out into a forest,
a writhing mass unattended
and insincere, better for planks
than questions that gore
little curiosities

did not slice my cheek open or
cauterize it with hot char and lime juice
I cut down lines from the trees, miniature
cypress, and I kissed their roots that they
were so appropriate for building ships

and for mourning.
there you saw me among the fallen branches
you were supposed to see me with the nails
and your dad’s hammer, breaking
a gift with a gift with iron

Do you want that boat for her
and my cheek throbs painfully and
my tongue is tired from snaking
round the truth, the hollow ring of the bell
to the tune of your question

would we

float if set in calm waters at morning and aren’t
we hardly able to float in the yard now
and every morning, before the sun
climbs, I do; to the top of the cypress
to see the myriad yet afforded to me

to recall your part in it.
a storm rolled in and over the ship
while we were gone, and you hired someone
to clean up the mess in a bout of
integrity that left me quietly laying in

upturned dirt, and she was entirely gone
from me as you pressed sour to my face.
it was not until you left to make another
day that again I felt lodged in my gums,
that splinter

2021