when commanded, she reluctantly spits it
back out
slick and glistening
her mouth
having gleaned the gravel
of its grit
her two-year molars oft packed
with chewed-on chalk
the telltale smudge pasteling her chin
this summer we ripped up
the grass and replaced it
with nothing
this hard drought, our broken
sprinklers
in the temptation
of our dirt backyard no matter
how many rocks she stuffs
into her cheeks
they do not soften into bread
or water
*
once
when there was nothing to eat
in the desert
we scraped up the earth itself
and were nourished
we believed it was
commanded
*
the wilting chokecherries drop stone fruit
unripe
on the property line
not even they can survive
this heat
I drag a hose to water deep
to soak down their roots
to save them
back inside the house
I hear the water grumbling
through the pipes and can’t believe
I am allowed to just
let it spill out
like this
one day it will run dry my son
dreams that in the graveyard
he can’t stop his sister from cramming
tombstones in her mouth
we’ve had her tested for what minerals
she is missing, what toxic ones
she’s taken in we have to quiz her
hold up modeling clay and paints
do we eat this do we eat this
*
inside this desert once
we planted an oasis filled
its fountains with water
now inside of this oasis is
another desert
about to break
*
our backyard
these stunted junipers
shedding oranging needles
that crackle underfoot
when we try to trace back
our steps
to a pocket of restful green
this should be no wilderness
to be lost in
in the irrigated park across the street
we steer clear
of the pebble-sided water fountain
she likes to lick
*
and now we have wandered
too far
into the desert have broken open
all the rocks sucked out all the water
like marrow from a bone do we eat
this we demand
of the desert
swallowing the field
do we eat this we demand of the sea
devouring the shore do we
*
eat this her little teeth
are jagged from chewing stone
soon they will fall away and
perfect new ones
will rise up
by then I dream
spoons of applesauce and soup
will pass smoothly
through her lips
and behind us the sprinklers
will spray across
everything even
the glass patio door
our yard greening
over the lines we dug up and then
buried again
and when I catch a glimpse
of something foreign inside
her mouth
I will find in there
the entire world
Bethany Schultz Hurst is the author of Miss Lost Nation (Anhinga), winner of the Anhinga Poetry Prize and finalist for the 2016 Kate Tufts Discovery Award. She is an associate professor at Idaho State University.
