in the name of chimichurri

the peppermint twine (red/white mixed)
i string/weave from post to post
above the very last notch
for the final layer of trellising on the south garden tomatoes
whose green green leafy leafy selves have mostly
all now grown taller
than me
how i stumble over something about

how not very useful
(for myself or others)
seems to be in this moment

so instead
i name what i want
which is to move/act from a place of love
and to connect to the joy/beauty
all the days are built of
em and i
cheers-ing our small glasses of melon liquado
(water, frozen melon and maple syrup)
before taking turns pouring it into
the popsicle molds
post-run sheen on my skin
(chest, arms, neck)
as i gulp some water in the kitchen
before standing under the
water so warm from today’s heat of the outdoor shower
that i have to do a cool-off round
in the indoor shower
with only the cold water running
do you know who this is
i ask cynthia (who’s chopping veggies
at the butcher block) of the
blackish caterpillar with
light green stripes down its sides
i hold in my opened palm
she doesn’t
and neither does the insect book but the internet
tells me it is a yellow striped armyworm
heat index for the day
somewhere above a hundred
and for most of the day i don’t know the temperature

but i feel it in all the slow moves
my body makes
it’s all in the name of chimichurri i say
when joseph thanks/comments on
me in the parsley for what must be
at least an hour cutting
at the stem and then plucking the leaves to drop
into the 5 gallon bucket
seen in the west only
when i turn around at the halfway mark
a tan/burnt sky
and the glow of the slightest sliver
of moon pressed
against it

i tell mica
about running into the post-dusk dark
and from there we joke about
blog posts and
mail written after dusk and
fenceposts one runs into
in the darkness
in the rainbow/butterfly swimsuit
(that trish passed on that s.k. passed on)
in the whitehouse where’s the beach i call out
next thing you know i tell joe
i’ll just be walking around with a black rectangle
over my chest
and a map of tasmania joseph adds
the back-forth swing rhythm of me
in the hammock 11something pm
toast snack in hand watching
the almost constant lightning
illuminating the nearly-no-moon sky


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