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
Baby Boom and Bust
‘Howdy hoody! Lemme guess: you was just passing through the middle of middle England, and you recognized the flame-decorated Ferrari outside my Hobbit Hole, and you buzzed ‘cos you fancied a parley?'
Telling the Truth
I once told a therapist my father was molesting me. It wasn’t true. I was twenty-five and exhausted, lying awake most nights trying to understand why I felt so sad when nothing in my life was obviously wrong.
Thoughts of Endangered Paper
Here I am, looking at this copy of a // two hundred-dollar book.
this is about capitalism, and The Poet Sees Her Ex at Pride
duty pulled a mountain along lesser used roads. // time was ill-spent preparing workers for the crossing.