The Beans

Are climbing everywhere. I haven’t staked them

and they’re latching onto whatever will help them grow;

the handle of the rake I left out all night; the front

wheel of the old rusted machine by the fence line; the

tall weeds behind them; each other.

And their desperate pushing is faintly crazy. In

the way we are all crazy when we try to remember

where it was that this happened before in just this

way. Like a suicide rummaging for razor blades, a

deaf man teaching himself to whistle.

— Maggie Anderson