Michael Goodfellow

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Michael Goodfellow

Seed Garlic

Warped boards
hammered together with nails
from the linoleum
we ripped up last spring,
softwood underneath,
deer fence stapled taut
to birch poles
sunk through topsoil, brook rocks
slid down to fit tight.
A late thing, I pick the bed I want,
ground hardened with frost,
stuck with eggshells and compost,
berries on the winter holly
burnt red by cold.

Wooden dibbler, shear
with beeswax polish, its tip
ground blunt, makes holes.
Cloves in their husks
of tracing paper,
under the skin something musky
and bright. I bury them.
Trees help. Quilt of elm,
shawl of maple.
One clove bounces
and lands in its hole,
root end down,
eager for damp ground.
July, scapes curl
from their stalks. Bent nails.

Michael Goodfellow reads “Seed Garlic”

Michael Goodfellow’s poetry is forthcoming or has recently appeared in The Dalhousie Review, The Cortland Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. He lives in Nova Scotia and is editor of The LaHave Review and a reader at Smartish Pace.