I know I’m low in iron

when

I start craving the dirt.

I mix mineral supplements into my orange juice,

because you absorb iron more effectively with vitamin C,

did you know?

and then the cravings subside.

But the supplements are expensive

so sometimes

I just live in this state of side-eyeing the dirt,

like it’s a girl whose freckles I love too much

and whose boyfriend is inconvenient.

I’m happy for them, of course,

of course.

I flirt with the dirt,

I think.

I lather my face in a dead sea mud mask

and oops,

it’s on my lips.

I knead the earth to nurture my plants

and,

uh-oh,

I smear some across my face

or

scrape it under my fingernails,

a deep black midnight snack.

At the supermarket I always buy brushed potatoes,

because brushed means

still lush

with a cakey layer of soil.

They’re cheaper,

and usually

people buy them when they’re going

to peel the potatoes anyway,

or commit to a long, thorough scrub.

I give them a tepid wash, but leave them still freckled with flavour.

I paid for this dirt, after all.

It’s worse in winter,

when I’m bleeding constantly

and hungry for the warmth of gentle rain

on sleeping minerals.

Freckles sometimes makes me homemade play-dough

because it’s tastier to eat than store-bought,

basically organic free-range soy salt dough, y’know?

but it’s not dirty, not even a little.

She has bright, sober eyes and can eat soup

in a white blouse

without ever making a mess,

not even from the fickle splosh of a spoon chinking the bowl’s cusp.

Her dough is never dirty.

My dog snuffles around in the backyard,

a slobbery sealion

pretend-playing as a truffle pig.

Her mind is an underground blueprint

of latitude lines across every goat horn

and chew toy hidden.

She walks back through the dogdoor

with a telltale mudsnout,

sneezing on secrets.

I envy the trail of her whiskers

paving alleyways for ants

through a miniature wilderness.

I listen to Another One Bites the Dust,

and I wish I would,

but literally.

Just lemme fucking eat the dirt.