Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Underneath My Flower Bed

Have you seen my petunia this morning?
(Its flowers are blossoming, more alive than before.
It was withering to death the last time your eyes were open.)

I wish you could see the new flower bed I'm making.

I remember the day I buried you.
(The sun was up, but the air was as moist as the ground.
I wore my favorite dress, only to be dirtied and torn as I dug your grave.)

You were heavy.

I remember the way it felt when I kissed your cold lips.
(You didn't kiss me back; I threw a stone right at your nose.
You were so modest, you didn't even scream.)

There was no sensation.

I have wounded my toes with your rusty old shovel.
(Forgive me if I didn't place a tombstone on your grave –
Our nosy neighbors might know you're there.)

I should have worn shoes.

Have you heard the news? Our old neighbor died yesterday.
(Can you feel the air of homogenous sympathy and dismay?
My chest feels heavy breathing it.)

Now his twenty four pigeons are free.

Forgive me; I didn't know that he would die.
(Did you know that decaying bodies nourish plants?
I had read that the day I poisoned your breakfast.)

I could have used him instead of you.

The clouds say it will rain;
(I'm doing great – so pleased, my petunia didn't wither.
You dear, how are you there underneath?)

I'll plant the other petunias above you tomorrow.

No comments:

Post a Comment