Weeding cuticle deep in the loose soil mounded around the zinnia roots at the community farm and my hands tingle with the breathing of all these transplanted bacteria, protists, fungi, and archaea grafted to the packed clay of land that carried a convent on its back and an open-pit gravel mine in its belly for six decades.
My mom tells me that I leaped in her belly every time the organ lurched into song. Her habitat was the pulpit in front of the tiny organist and the looming pipe organ, which was gummed into the very architecture of the Carolina church where her earnest voice filled the room as she preached each Sunday.
Our esteemed council member from the Fourth Ward would like to close Ninth Street to traffic and cover it in Astroturf. For the purposes of “milling about.”
Beyond the stained-glass glow of the library’s windowed wall was a garden of medicinal plants. Purple bells of foxglove and yellow buttons of calendula. . .
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