google tells me they are hyper-seasonal, highly coveted. my yard tells me they are hyper-attainable, highly abundant. on a
winding drive up a rocky road to the mountains, my lover tells me ramps are ramps. got it. i grew up
just four hours north of here, so why do ramps feel so foreign? i rip them from my driveway, root and stem, and toss
them aside. a proper burial is impractical; there are too many left to kill. nevertheless I kneel, surprisingly even-keeled
given my knees ground gruesomely onto gravel. not praying; nearly bleeding. green stalks and white bulbs surround me,
askew above ground. a mass grave of my own making. if this is not penance, please, tell me what is. they will slowly die
precisely where they briefly lived, under my gaze, which is focused solely on my own sore flesh. when i try to look
beyond my gravel-pocked palms, i see no wild onions. i see only limp versions of my past selves discarded en masse.
what do you call the place you live between the place you grew up and the place you will likely live forever? what do you
call each if all three places cause pain? are they then not worth staying? maybe the ramps are onto something. there is
something to be said for bursting to life, flourishing and unstoppable, and calling wherever you’ve grown that day home.
all weeds flower eventually if allowed to grow long enough. my hair grows longer. my 27th birthday passes. i have lived
in this home for three years. i cut back the weeds wound round my fenceposts with brand new shears. i am sharp. sweaty.
satisfied. who cares what i kill while i’m here? i’ll be gone soon. we’ll all be gone soon. why should they get to bloom?