Gardening

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.

Notes:

A version of this poem titled “Lawn” was first published in The Account.

Source: Poetry (April 2021)