Like earth

In the garden with dirt in our hands,
we discuss happiness and my mother’s hair.
Eat something sinful,
my grandma says.
I think about it. I do.
I pull a carrot out of the ground and I eat it,
the dirt and all. It tastes like earth. Shameless.
I eat another.
This is not what she was talking about, of course.
We’ll pull weeds tomorrow.