a woman you once loved, she took the pain
of a chaotic upbringing and tried to tame
it through tight control. Her days scheduled
with meditation and yoga, with krafts
and projects and frequent human contact.
she laughed freely and loved widely,
a nurturing woman, kind and flowering.
though when you watched her, she
unaware of your eyes, you saw the twitch
and tremble of her grip. the quaking
effort of holding on so tight. her hands
playing a minor tremolo, a quiver
at the apex of her mouth.
she planted a small garden,
at a rented home next to the ocean.
the ocean and the home, both
of which you once together shared.
the seeds have now sprouted, shaking
the soil as they reach for Summer light. yet your harvest
is meager, consumption of garden’s vegetal fruit,
limited. a bite of lettuce, a few stalks
of kale, all that’s made it into your body.
your body, haunted and hollow, incandescent with
pain. though maybe that’s really only
your mind. she sought control and you relentlessly
pursued annihilation. the cracked pane of a chemical
chaos. glass, really a liquid after all.
now you daily patrol garden beds,
plucking with tremor’d grip the slugs
that gently feed. and with your teenaged pitching arm,
you hurl them into the sea. perhaps there is
a seedling day which will sprout, a future
harvest, and you will then pick more than
slugs, from a garden of love’s planting.