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)