gardening
I thinned the flowerbeds as I had been taught to do;
Forcing the weaker shoots free from their roots
and neatly stacking them into piles to become dirt again.
I watered those left, and stroked their leaves
not knowing, the hidden connections that had been severed beneath.
(Let me feast on the curves of your face
Engraved into my eyelids.)
Morning came and the remaining buds stood bowed and frayed.
What I had been taught to do did not save them in this case.
These blooms were of a different breed, something new and fluid
had evolved as I planted the seeds
(what happens when you wake from someone else’s dream?)
no longer “I” or “them”, but this new “us” born from our intimacy.
And I cannot pull another weed that is not a piece of me.
(Let our love be the sun that does not set.
Let me put it on the shelf and forever desire it.)
Forcing the weaker shoots free from their roots
and neatly stacking them into piles to become dirt again.
I watered those left, and stroked their leaves
not knowing, the hidden connections that had been severed beneath.
(Let me feast on the curves of your face
Engraved into my eyelids.)
Morning came and the remaining buds stood bowed and frayed.
What I had been taught to do did not save them in this case.
These blooms were of a different breed, something new and fluid
had evolved as I planted the seeds
(what happens when you wake from someone else’s dream?)
no longer “I” or “them”, but this new “us” born from our intimacy.
And I cannot pull another weed that is not a piece of me.
(Let our love be the sun that does not set.
Let me put it on the shelf and forever desire it.)
Stagnum Spiritus
There used to be a swamp here.
Back before the water was drained,
and redirected for better things.
Like flushing toilets
and washing cars.
Now there is cracked asphalt,
and muddied clay.
(the topsoil long washed away)
But I know there used to be fish
and alligators to eat them.
I remember my mother cleaning
the scales off the brim
before we fried them.
I know there used to be trees here,
overlooking the spring.
Their creaking and moaning
like old ladies’ backs
when they sway in the wind
And branches full of crows
eerily sounding
like children.
Back before the water was drained,
and redirected for better things.
Like flushing toilets
and washing cars.
Now there is cracked asphalt,
and muddied clay.
(the topsoil long washed away)
But I know there used to be fish
and alligators to eat them.
I remember my mother cleaning
the scales off the brim
before we fried them.
I know there used to be trees here,
overlooking the spring.
Their creaking and moaning
like old ladies’ backs
when they sway in the wind
And branches full of crows
eerily sounding
like children.
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Rebecca CristanteRebecca Cristante is a multi-disciplinary visual artist, writer, and naturalist from Decatur Country, Georgia. Native plants, oral histories, and human interaction with environments are often at the heart of her work. She has exhibited her photography and illustrations world wide. Her poems and prose have appeared in journals such as Eyedrum Periodically, Burnt
District, The Five Hundred, Constellations Journal, Mistake House Magazine, and the Remington Review. Her first collection of poetry, There is More Pavement Than Wilderness East of the Mississippi, was published by Passiflora Press in 2020. Twitter // @rebecacristante Instagram // @rebeccacristante Website // rebeccacrisante.com |