Gardening
Alyse Knorr
1.
Thriving roses at Chautauqua, wilting
desert here. I am trying to live,
trying to keep alive
2.
two dozen plants, one cat, one human.
Grass pokes through the beds
but nothing in the bald patches.
3.
All I remember of García Márquez
is the woman flying away. O porch
string lights, O motion sensor light,
4.
O mosquito candle light, O sun.
O to purchase every detail
of the Pinterest lawn,
5.
paint the accent doors ourselves.
I remember, too, the ants eating
the baby, last of the family line.
6.
My daughter carries my name
and the genes of a stranger.
She grew inside my wife. Brush
7.
away the mulch, find the source,
the root: let the water drip
and accumulate. Not a downpour
8.
but a soft slow drench. My daughter
ripping up the yard layer by layer.
Fistfuls of earth and grass blades,
9.
like a swordsman or a chef.
We’ll water again in an hour,
unless it rains and we don’t.
first published in POETRY Magazine
