I pulled the heads when the internet said to –
The two lowest leaves dead, a third
Beginning to die, like the first loss
Of feeling that heralds the stroke.
They came up easy, like they'd been waiting
For me, through with dirt and darkness.
The cloves we planted in late fall were turning
Into bulbs while everything you know
Happened this winter and spring was happening
And they didn't once cross my mind.
Today I tied them in bunches of five
And hung them from the beams
In the garden shed. They hang there now
As I write this, drying in the night air,
Beginning to put on their thin skins.
I want to know everything
They learned in the dark.
A few weeks and I'll be smashing them
With the flat of a knife.
Maybe I'll taste it.
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