In the garden
In the garden, I feel close to my mother
It is a place I have always known her to be
Where the names of her plants
comply with her love for wordplay:
snow on the mountain, bleeding hearts,
hens and chicks, forget-me-nots
Her fingers hug the necks of snapdragons
and silently they open their mouths, like puppets
I catch grasshoppers and sprinkle salt on slugs
She assembles bouquets from cuttings
of yarrow and daisies, peonies and sweet peas
Pansies are plucked, pressed, and preserved
entombed between sheets of newsprint
weighed down under encyclopedias
until the petals are as dry as paper
We pick raspberries in the morning
and water in the evening
We are as stubborn as weeds, she and I
squatting low to the earth
while we dig and prune and plant
Her knuckles swell and my back aches,
but we stay outside until the sun has set
because we are happy here, in the garden.
Boo
Black cat, green eyes, no tail
Skittish and unfriendly
I reach for the pitcher in the pitch black
When off the counter he jumps
And I jump, not realizing he was hidden in the dark
And when I whisper, “Boo!”
I’m not really sure who scared who
Because I’ve not meant to frighten
That’s just his name
Bliss
Standing in the kitchen with my uncle
Eating fresh pineapple from the yard
No plates or utensils, just fingers
Juice dripping down our hands into the sink
Where we can wash the sweetness down the drain
Before the ants come marching in
Undone
I am seated in front of the vanity where, as a girl, my mother brushed her hair.
Conscious that time is untravellable, the younger version of my mother unknowable to me.
Were we similar as young women, she and I?
I am 17 years older than the last time I sat here, and I’m feeling uncomfortably aware that time is unstoppable.
I miss the younger, wide-eyed version of myself – unburdened, unwrinkled, unabashed.
But no sense unraveling while dwelling on the unavoidable.
No amount of wishing will stop the undoing of this body, until God gives me a new one.
When what is sown perishable will be raised imperishable.
Inclined to looking backward, I don’t want this nostalgia to undermine the present.
And perhaps, with faith, it’s not unbelievable – that the best is yet to come.
Invasive
The crab spiders resemble crustaceans
As they scuttle across their webs
My uncle swipes at them with a broom
Brushing their strands of sunlight from the trees
Stomping them underfoot when they fall to the ground
They are guilty of eating the bees
The parakeets are foragers
Streaks of spearmint flying across the blue sky
Without any predators to fear
They descend to ravage the lychee
The pink of the fruit irresistible to their eyes
Greedily they steal the farmer’s harvest
The feral chickens rule the islands
Running across the roads at will
Roaming freely from one yard to the next
They spend their days scratching in the dirt
Looking for insects and seeds to eat
Their claws destroy the vegetation
The coqui frogs sing at bedtime
One of the world’s loudest amphibians
Throats ballooning to amplify their tune
Up to a cacophonous 100 decibels
As noisy and repetitive as a siren
They keep me from sleep
The crab spiders, the parakeets, the chickens, the coqui
Each one is an invader
Operating outside of its intended boundaries
Yet it is not simply a case of bad versus good
It is an imbalance
Where beauty destroys beauty
And I find myself weighing pairs of two
Wishing both could coexist in harmony
The spider’s silken web with the pollinator’s usefulness
The flash of green feathers and the grower’s crop
The flock of fowl with the flourishing foliage
The tune of the coqui and the restfulness of quiet