Archaeologist, Marauder, Husband

If I were tiny I’d plant a shovel in your heart 

and excavate the rocky flesh. I’d shimmy an 

awl around the stubborn stones. I’d 

even light itty bitty sticks of dynamite if I came 

upon a boulder that didn’t belong. I’d 

dig ‘til I find the alcove he hides in, the 

three headed dragon with rancid curry 

breath that makes you afraid all the time. I’d 

whip out a toothpick sword and go full 

Reepicheep on him. I’d burn his body and 

stash the ash to fertilize the garden he 

trampled, the one where you’re trying to 

grow the lotuses, roses, and maples. I’d 

reseed and weed and weep over the roots 

to groom each bloom. I’d spelunk into your 

lower caves, the ones light hasn’t known, and I’d

hang chandeliers of gems and jewels I stole from

D.C. museums, the ones churned for millennia in desi 

dirt before we snatched them with our 

hands wrapped in invisible skin. They’d shine from 

within you so the world could warm itself

in your caramel glow, marvel at your cardiac botany, and 

irrigate your undammed-river.