Flash Frog

In the vegetable patch, a fallen tree branch. Underneath it, crushed parsley, green onion sprigs, snow peas. I work without gloves and the soil, moist and dark, clumps in my fingernails. After the storm, assorted weeds and clusters of clover sprout through the gravel….

When the protests erupted grandma started calling. She’d ask why on earth I lived in Portland, where all she ever saw were videos of shrieking people and things on fire. “It’s all contained on this one block,” I told her, which was partially true….

We’re just guts and knuckles, father says, ice and dust. We die like abandoned diamond mines. I roll my eyes. I don’t buy that bluster. He’s trying to believe they don’t matter. All these bodies in the refrigerated night, the haunted songs of loss….