Peachland Sewer: Invasion
Dona Sturmanis

They rape Donald’s yard just before Christmas,
tie ropes to the hedge shrubs, yank them out of the ground,
drag them to a pile, bind them for burning.

They expropriate his daffodil beds,
dig them up with the steam shovel,
pile the best soil in Peachland
in a mound that suffocates the roses.

They drive a trench
through the grassy path
between our houses, add water, mix a mud pit.

Ground shake-a-shaking.
Machines deface the craft of their manicured yard.
Donald and Clara stand still like surrendered peasants,
watching the Bolsheviks claim their land.

Too peaceful to fight, they offer tea to the workers.
In the back of the house, a grassy park with
trees, beautiful trees, under which I sat alone,
fifty-foot-high trees
are pulled from the ground,
branches first, like hands removed.

Can you hear them screaming?

The significance of a lawn, the shape of a leaf.
These are just surface details
when faced with the power of the steam shovel.

Our little crescent now a mud-filled pit,
sewer diggers laugh, say we need bigger and better boots.