Code Breaker
I break letters from words for you, rearrange them
in neat rows along the sidewalks.
I am always careful: there is no fear
the neighbors might decipher
my carefully planted anagrams.
The trowel, the hose, the wheelbarrow
full of fertilizer were purchased some Saturday
from Harvey’s Garden Supplies.
If anyone notices anything, it is the ritual
I follow while planting: the long silence
before the hole with a pot by my knees,
my hands covered in clumping mud.
My garden in the most exact in the neighborhood;
you will grant me that much. Every plant
is letter perfect, chosen to resist interpretation.
I prune ruthlessly at the first sign of code breakers:
browning leaves stripped, misshapen bulbs pruned,
bug-infested bushes uprooted. No one notices
anything amiss—but you! You would haul the rot
from behind the fence and burn it in the yard.