Emily Franklin
RIPPING MINT FROM THE WALKWAY, I LEAVE THE ROOTS TO ROT—
but it’s of no use, ripping out invasive growth
old mint and spearmint planted let’s say
carelessly by the house’s former inhabitant
a woman who perhaps did not understand
what she was doing, setting forth a lifetime
of regrowth and annoyance, leaves pushing
into new sedum, roots tangling around agapanthus
trying to get a foothold. Mostly I ignore and
work around, successful at turning away from such
strong scented intrusion, but other times I can’t help
it and here am knee-crouched like I’m praying
tugging close to the ground as possible, ripping roots
the way sometimes it feels good to pick at a scab
worrying the skin just enough to free its own healing
maybe stopping right before the blood, the way, too
sometimes the rape comes back and even though its
of no use to retrace the roots—ugly light, each bruise—
the mind does so anyway, or the body, ripping carefully
at first and then more ragged, trying to clear the dirt even
though it’s like the mint, seemingly like one thing and then
not, and I think of the woman here before me who didn’t
think about what the mint meant, what it would do to this
life, such a rookie mistake, thinking one small act
couldn’t possibly be the forever rooting with it complex
underground systems snaking up unexpected, vigorous
achingly green even in the midst of autumn’s death knoll.
Still, I cannot blame her for such innocent gardening
and I’m sure she would be relieved to know I’ve let go
resentments, and—mainly— let go the urge to pull
and on days when I must let rip, I also forgive myself.