Chelsea Physic Garden, London UK
I found him there—
between nightshade and lilies,
basking in the hush of a March morning.
He had sprouted from the soil:
eyes the color of treebark,
leaves budding at his collarbones,
sweet yellow fruit in his palms.
With dimples full of snowdrops,
his smile curved along
the winding paths of Chelsea.
He belonged to the garden,
with all the shades of spring
blooming in his heart.
After Burning, Read:
Trucks and horse-drawn vans rumble through Lexington’s streets
hauling the dead to Union Station. Pyramids of caskets
sway precariously, ten on the first layer up to poignant oneness.
A crying need for coffins echoes where lumbermen lie
in their beds, felled by influenza.
Doctors’ prescriptions and home inventions proliferate:
rot-gut whiskey or the real deal, fresh-cut onions,
snake oil liniment, laxatives, camphor, quinine,
asafetida in red flannel hung from a neck cord,
gravy or Oxo beef bouillon, fumes (nitrous oxide? Opium?),
blood-letting, saltwater gargles,
exorcism.
Call from David
I know I promised I’d call you
so I decided to call now.
I didn’t want you to think I lied.
Are you busy?
That’s good.
I was thinking about our past–
Our families were so connected
all those years.
Dad preached all those years at the church.
You had a sister named after my mother.
Yes, that’s right.
Your dad and Edgar were known to drink.
We had that Christmas play and they showed up
full.
Your mother and Josephine were furious.
Josephine was mean.
You mean she threw rocks and broke the mirror
on your side for dropping Edgar off?
So she blamed your dad for getting him drunk
when it was one time he was innocent?
I remember Uncle Nobe. That shiveree. I was up the road.
Dad was there. We could hear that laughter.
You dad was driving, pulling metal, a car hood.
I remember it was a car door.
Thanks for reminding me.
Edgar was shooting his shotgun…
It was a single shot you say?
He shot twice as they passed.
I heard later that Uncle Nobe was standing
by the window, pistol in hand, ready to shoot back.
So it ended when your dad called him out?
It’s a wonder he took it that way.
Uncle Nobe was 30, 31 years older than Christine.
If you remember, dad married them at Willie
and Ella’s…
Thanks for reminding me of that.
Mt Union was know for its singing.
Ella could really sing and play piano.
Uncle Nobe did teach shape note singing.
you’ve reminded me of that.
Did you remember Uncle Nobe said I do
and then said let’s sing?
Anyway, I’m down there occasionally.
My cousin Gene Latham eats at the Junction
every day from 11:30 to 12:00.
The last time I saw Wayne to talk to him
was at the Junction.
You know I’m 80 now and you are a few years
behind me?
I thought you were. Since they operated on my
knee, I’ve finished therapy and walking daily.
So you ran that much before you got sick?
You ran from the barn to the house?
That’s right, the metal garage.
I have a woman who rides with me
places.
You aren’t looking in the right places then.
That’s true. I’ve got to cook.
You know I’m an hour later than you.
I live on 150 now.
I look forward to you doing that.
When I first moved here, I bought the house
and 0.88 acre.
That’s too much for you too manage.
Yes, I remember Mr. Young.
It good that his son promised to cut
and roll your hay. That’s good for you and him
both.
When I met my first neighbor here,
she said we’ve got the biggest lot
in this subdivision.
I took that as being pride.
I said big is not always better…
Come when you can…
I used to wonder
why it was worst on Sundays
until I remembered
that was the day I used to feed it
but no longer do.
Must be hungry.
I’ll spoil: it’s depression.
My therapist wants me to be more open about it.
Or would,
If I actually went to therapy.
No, I’m more of a DIYer.
Taking things apart,
putting them back together,
hopefully fixed.
It’s only natural to have a few extra screws left over, right?
Rattling around in there.
???The sky turned pink tonight—
the softest, boldest pink I’ve ever seen.
As if the heavens leaned close to say,
This is for you.
To every mother
in the kingdom of Earth:
We are here.
We are free.
We are remembering.
And so it is.
The prettiest person I know
So many ideas trapped inside
How do I free them?
Maybe a checklist
Need to buy the right materials
Need to practice first
Just need the time
Then I can start
Then I can pry them free from those tiny pages
But maybe they’re not ready to come out yet
Which do I free first?
So many
Just choose one
Start anywhere
Start now
They’ll stay trapped otherwise
The reason why the villagers cried out
Was not that he looked strange
But looked familiar
Pieced together as he was from graves
Of those who died so recently, too soon
For time to smooth away the edge of grief
A woman saw her lover’s face
The lips that kissed her in the heat of passion
And groaned apology with their last breath
A girl saw the arms of soldier brothers, right and left,
That swung her, beloved sister, in between
Before leaving for their final battle
A son saw his father’s knees, the favored seat
To listen to the passed-down stories
And the grandson’s, too, for that short time they had
Did he realize?
They never saw a monster
But a memory
