The shovel stalks me
rocking forward left-right
on its blade.

I wear disguises, dodge
into doorways. Sometimes shovel passes,
sometimes waits.

I hire clippers, rake, and fork
to spy on shovel.
They report nothing.

I suspect shovel wants to whack me—
one hard blow to my occiput.
I’m jealous of those who plant daffodils.

My shovel is sinister,

On rainy nights, I dream
shovel deepens my grave.
My dream fork says dig.

—Sara Backer