my backyard has a negative slope. an acre, maybe less, descends into a tree line over small indentations in the land; wounds that tear open, scab, and heal. other places where the ground sinks into itself cause the wheels of my father’s lawnmower to spin. meanwhile, in front and back flower beds, my mother dedicates her life to pulling our weeds and tending to a stagnant pond. years pass, get heavier, and the weeds take over. during a visit home my father says that my mother is preoccupied with the weight of her head, not the garden. the mind slips and spins, too. we never talk about the reasons why; we bury them in the backyard instead. the land is best suited for a wet tarp in the summer. a sled in the winter. my sister and i perform rituals of going down and coming back up with each passing season. we expect blossoms in spring, but our roots are tangled and rotting. this is what my mother hid underneath the soil; an inheritance already spent by her family's aching wombs. i try to shake femininity from my body, but the fall returns it to back to me. no progress can be made here, but still i need the hill’s decline. its gravity pulls me to the edge of the trees. here i stare past branches into spider webs full of old memories, strung like dew on lines of silk. when i lean closer former faces are refracted in endless mirrors and i see myself queerly for the first time. i watch for twenty-five years as one ditch tries to remember its original shape. past and present extend outward from this point, run tandem up hill, and coat everything in their path with light pink. my body covered and resolved in the tint. there is life beyond the backyard. it’s nothing holding everything. it was here all along, tucked under my feet. i wonder if it might have been possible to find it sooner. but my search ends and begins under a warm sun in the life of june. blue eyes water my bluegrass for one week; on the seventh day my tears turn dry roots into creek and i rest.