I dig my fingertips down
into the soil
past the point of warmth
in search of the dandelion’s root

& I might as well be standing before a mirror
running my palms along every fold
and crevice that screams woman
pinching my cellulite as if I could
pluck it from the surface of me

the earth seeps through
the fabric of my gloves
finding home beneath
my fingernails

I ask myself
when was the first time
I thought of myself as a boy
or at least as something
that was not a girl

& if my womanhood can
once and for all be plucked
from this body
or if I’ll spend the rest of my life
watching it sprout yellow
turn to the wind &
scatter across my surface