My Garden
And a country that is barely hanging on.
I plant flowers in the spring of a new war.
Prune the fronds of the lazy palms that shade
The picnic table in the yard.
Thirty sirens scream on the road below, racing
To the aftermath of another union between
A broken mind and a household armory.
The tomatoes fill in on the trellis, plump and green,
Promising salsa and sauce if given enough
Time to grow.
A little boy talks to a reporter about the bad things
He saw, his sweet voice pushed from his
Cherubic face. He blinks harder than a child should.
The petunias rage in uproarious fuchsia, their thin
Skin fluttering in the breeze. And still they stand in
The unforgiving sun.
Two men lean against their trucks, guns in their
Holsters, cowboy hats on their heads. They are
Not dressed for the beach, nor this town.
I sweep the spiderwebs from the succulents that
Appear to need nothing from me at all. An arachnid
Scurries away to a shady crack.
The light turns green on another housing complex
Where the coyotes used to live, in the canyons that
Held our teenage secrets. Everything old is gone.
Amethyst blossoms shimmy on the fringes of the
Jacaranda. I forget her beauty every autumn until
She returns again, anew.
I learn of cyanide bombs in the mouths of wolves,
And forever chemicals in the blood of humans. It is
Clear that fortune motivates the cruelty, the indifference.
A verdant carpet of grass lays itself tall, bejeweled
With sun-hewed dandelions and wishes to be blown.
Little oaks protect from above.
The names of devilish men stay hidden behind black
Lines while children disappear and women are ignored.
These monsters have existed in every lifetime.
Eucalyptus leaves flutter to the soil, invasive in this
Part of the world, a tree with its soft bark and
delightfully flammable oil.
This baby of a nation, hastily built on the backs of
Stolen people, on the land of the massacred,
Seems on the verge of self-immolation.
The compost heap, a mound of dead old branches
And fresh new clippings, lay on top of each other,
Refusing to merge.
It is hard to imagine that, one day, the layers will cease
To exist, and instead yield something new entirely.
And so the garden continues to bloom.