Acrid (A Poem)

When I dug at the earth with the tines of my heart,
you said I was rootless. Ruthless of you,
to cast me upside-down into my own tilled soil.
It smelled like the snap of cut grass in summertime.

My movements became jerky, a lawnmower puttered
out. I wouldn't take your sour offer, lemonade without
twelve spoons of sugar. Perhaps we're back to rations,
sweetness. Perhaps I'd stay for a granular paradise.