Anaconda Root

The thick black root shed light
on a ruler, curled up,
slumbering in my mind,
and its curious inability
not to measure the fear
of a twitching spider
sizing up a continent of flesh

It’s not inches or stones, more
hunch of impending effort.
Beyond the hand-tearing of soil lies
the serrated edge of a father’s saw.
Its final rasps shower me with
his absent aftershave. I watch
as old fingers fix a new blade.

This anaconda of a root,
proud of girth and curves,
has lain in wait for today’s battle.
Its victories over soil and stone,
an endless stream, until the son of,
defeated by sweat and weakness,
severed its strength.

The excised trunk,
hurled on a discard pile,
destined for the evening’s fire,
with ancient wood-eyes
spoke of such discomfort.
The same look that shrivelled
a dismantled apostle.

This unexpected burden,
an onus of desecration,
filtered away with each
lunge of fork and spade
until the disturbed soil,
raked to a tilth,
exhaled its scent and lay still.