(Editor’s note: As a pair, these poems explore a tenuous relationship through garden imagery.)
. . .
In Our Garden
Father razed our treehouse.
And the barn filled with spider webs.
The manure pile (perfumed flower food)
Produced climbing shoots.
One by one, friends sank down,
Swallowed by indifferent earth,
Turned into complacent dirt
That blackens hands and feet.
This soil, our shared identity—
Torn by trowel and hoe and spade
Cleaving “we” into
You and me, separating one root-set
Into two entities—
Here, we’ll cultivate our garden.
In the East
| We weed our garden With calloused hands; Digging in dirt that Has often drunk Blood. Silent sometimes, Or with biting words We beg our plants To grow, and curse when They don’t. The raspberries Strangle each other— At my rebuke, They bite. You weep and My teeth gnash. | The corn turns pale From lack of water; The fig tree bears Bad fruit. Who will cut It down? You? Me? If I throw my Shovel to the earth Would you cast away Your hoe, and amble Out the garden gate? I look to the sky, And plead with him, Lips chapped, eyes scorched, “Lord, please send us Rain.” |
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