Waiting

Jane buries a bean under the porch 

amongst the nail beds and rust mud.

That summer, heat is a curtain over everything.

Her parents paint the fence white again.

She waits for green, then digs it up, finds nothing. 

She tells herself she spots some green dust.

She lays feathers to top the mound like a spell or a blanket. 

Winter comes dark and wet.

The dirt on her knees becomes clay becomes glue.

Nothing moves.

Blood turns still and blue inside her legs.

She digs and digs and pulls up white roots like still born children crumpled in God's giant hand.

One night there is a loud clap of thunder. 

The walls lean in and the baseboards shake. 

The gleaming linoleum ripples.

The laminate splinters.

A beanstalk splits the living room in half

like a bamboo shoot it climbs over the chandelier

up and out the chimney. 

In the morning no one talks.

Her parents hum and make wide eyes out the window

clench their coffee cups 

pour Jane cereal with fresh milk

and wait for her to confess.