the heads

I wake up and find my husband
buried up to his ears in dirt in our backyard.

His mistress is next to him,
between the roses and azaleas.

Only their heads and necks are visible
from where I stand,
on the patio we built together.

The two heads talk animatedly to each other,
though they can't actually see
their partner in crime, because of the way they are
positioned in the ground.

I think: It's like that Beckett play,
Happy Days, where the heroine
is all alone, and with a gun. At least, she could move
her hands on stage.

From afar, they could easily be
tree stumps, or a very large rock in the grass.

The high noon sun beams down.
I don't know if I should offer my husband a stiff drink,
or cool him off with the garden hose.

As for her, I pretend not to notice
the way she pouts her little lips. Even in this heat
she is beautiful.

I imagine her twenty-something body
beneath the sandy dirt. The breasts still perky,
the stomach relatively flat.

I wonder if he still pictures her naked
the way I'm doing now.

Straining to read a face
I lived with so long I no longer remember
what it looks like. Then resisting
the urge to walk over to the two heads in the earth

and pull them up individually, by the hair,
like you would a carrot or some other type of root.

What do you say to a milkweed?
Nothing, apparently. It goes on spreading
wherever it pleases.

Until one day, you learn that it's not the garden's fault
for being weak. That you are free
to overlook this imperfection. Let nature
return to its original state. But not before

you set the field on fire.