The Accountant
by Victoria Sanchez
Reckon with all things. Heft & counter.
The system of trade
is simple. Coins for clean clothes. Birdseed for flutter,
for hush. Keep silent to fade
in layered sheets. The whip
of wind, then empty green. Here I stand in pre-morning
looking—here I take note.
Balance-booking. I shear grass
for every leafing tree. I dig, I bury. Today rose early,
light too quick. I plan for this.
Greet new day
in between clotheslines, dew & hanging heavier. Sun chases
damp from cloth, chases days
aground, stitched into sprouts
& buds. I cull the wilt of time unspent, eat hours
in one sitting. This is the way
to get it all back. I make up
for my years, I am not afraid of work. I walk in lands untrod
and leave them scavenged,
weeds standing tall
for my hands to grasp then tug. It is only at the end
of a long labor that I may come back
with gatherings: sun-scent
in cloth, plants safe to eat, small birds I took stone to.