Dear City and County Inspector —

May your own lawn
grow a hundred beanstalks
before morning.

May God post a notice
on the back of your eyelids
and leave a phone number
to which no human voice
will ever answer.

May you trim the earth with your teeth.

May the roots we pull connect
on the other end to your silky cuticles
and each time we tug
at dandelion weed
may it rip at your tender fingernail beds.

May the rains come early
and a flood of tumble weeds
roll across your chest while you sleep.

May the water for your golf course
dry up like the abyss of your crusted
and rusty heart.

May you be forced to replant the seeds
of the Sioux and Ojibwe, forced
to bear prayer to Russian Sage
and Native Sedum Lanceolatum.

May the ghosts of thick vines haunt you,
wrap themselves around
your white sleeved wrists,
tie you to your desk chair.

May a rose bush, 6” tall, grow
from your nostrils,
so in the future
there will be no mistakes.

— Abby