The Artist's Garden at Eragny, by Camille Pissarro
Her Last Garden
My uncle told me turn the soil over
after that we'll lay a sheet over it
everything under it will die, and
we can start again.
I listened to him – he knows gardens
he and my aunt could make an Eden
out of an overgrown, dying hellscape
I know. I saw them.
The spade in my hand jittered on concrete
a hardness in the weed-infested turf
someone else did this, hurt this garden
not him, not me.
Inside my aunt saw out of one eye
maybe saw me, black mass burrowing
while she looked at her last garden in Spring
I dug hard for her.
This was one thing I could do for her
my uncle had other things to do
they gave him a chair, and straps, and pills
he dug with them.
But every garden is a dying thing
the rot and the death is near to the core
dig it out if you can, but know
it will come back again.
January 7, 2025
Further considerations
In Situ
It was there all along: // a knot beneath the skin, // a stranger's tongue in darkness
Hypnotizing Chickens
One Saturday afternoon in the shoulder // season between calving and haying
let us cast lots, and can't we have a lesbian love story where no one dies?
I hate rich people, // my son says, spat // from the belly of the bus // that each day returns him // to dry land
Seeds of Pomegranate
Usually Rafael was called Rafa, but Hope shortened it further to Raf. Some of the other men who worked at the hotel would tease him when they heard this, but Rafael never mentioned it to her. He met her briefly while she worked the day shift during the summer time, when the sun would bleed through the windows and warm her pale face while she stood behind the front desk.