after thirty days the doctors tell you stop tearing through the rocks and mud in your backyard. the neighbors have complained about you in your sheer white night dress, standing knee deep in dirt, the bugs hanging from your hems like trapeze artists. the Stones drowning at the bottom of their communion cups warn you of the spirits that roam beneath the surface, ready to take hold of your arms, drag you to some place that gives even brimstone and flame the jitters. old lady Mitchell next door brings you a pot roast and muffins, tilts her head to the side after she notices the triple lutz two razors carved in your wrists. the Berman kids dig up your daffodils at sundown and that night while you’re sweating beneath the moon digging up maggots and artifacts, you notice the Johnson’s bedroom curtain pulls back and flutters every hour until you’ve done all the work you can do before dawn. Betty, what the hell is she doing out there? John I don’t know, but whatever she’s looking for she won’t find it digging with that tiny pen.