After I blunt Ming’s grapnels
with files and buffers, she wolfs
down the meat off the pull cup.
In the open yard where I grow
blush Parfait, beside the bush
is a toddler crouching to squat.
Covered in dusty indigo, she can
be easily mistaken as a tall pile
of trash if not for her breathing.
She digs with bare hands to push
out her dumpster lunch, her nose
gasping for air on the blossoms.
For cleaning herself, she gathers
the sundried leaves she can reach
before filling up the shallow hole.
Grating the dirt under her nails
with a thorn, she then walks away,
her dress swaying into the sunset.
The windows closed for the day,
I sit on the sofa as Ming struggles
in her box, a bowl of water nearby.
