Autocorrect
Mum asked me to ‘water the plains’ in a text
and I can’t stop imagining myself with a watering can
out on the Atacama salt plains under the stars.
I text back, ‘yes,’ empty my can,
and I set off for the barge with
my trowel in hand.
I scale rocky crags. I fall.
I get up. I wade through a river of ice,
lifting the can over my head.
I’m afraid to get it wet.
I fight off a pack of mountain lions,
waving my trowel at them.
Then I get there, where,
finally,
no one can hear me,
and then I just
start
pouring.