I bought some bulbs from the garden centre, on a bit of a whim with an extra tenner;
glowing with friendship and caffeine and beer, feeling for once like I wanted to steer.
a little pot too, a ceramic home. I tucked them in tight and left them alone
in a warm beam on the windowsill, and didn't begin to worry until
what ended up growing was unexpected - a flower I never felt really reflected
who I was and what I’d done, so I let its petals wilt in the sun.
next I got some cherry seeds. chose the spot outside where I used to read.
encouraged compliments from friendly tourists - but much preferred the cruel voyeurists.
tart, flesh melting, stems being tied by tongues lapping up remnants of innocence, wide-eyed.
that became meditation instead, on my back in the breeze or in someone's bed.
in the dark I woke and the saplings were gone. that's what I get for just going along
with what I thought others desired from me. a lesson that cost me a few more lost trees.
I mourned again, and again (and again). they just lack appreciation for good fruit, men.
then I thought vegetables - homey and nurturing. the first few harvests were generous and bursting;
broccoli and carrots and parsnips for stews. for a few years we grew all that we used,
needing nothing else, just our wee patch. until one day someone else lit a match;
I smelled the smoke in our haven first, but instead used the water to quench my own thirst.
so close that I was cauterised while your wounds festered, infected by lies.
in the old patch I planted a money tree, for obvious reasons, really.
now that the fence has gone up, I grow peaches. the voyeurists ache, but their eyes can't reach us.
on my tummy, propped elbows, juice covering my face; slavering and sticky, unburdened by grace.
lazily learning against ramshackle walls, letting myself stretch fully and tall
and take up space, as much as I like, and cry if I want to without stopping to wipe
the tears as they fall so they mix with the juice. I lick them up regardless - what’s the use
of denying something so purely mine, and I guess now I cry much less of the time.
each morning the rays dry the dew anyway, and so with puckered pips in my Eden I’ll stay.
| KMBG | 9-10 August 2024 |
