Body Garden

Body Garden

Charlotte is gone,
and she’s never coming back.
Amy is as sure of this
as she is of the rose
beneath her nose
(a flower with no scent).
It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK.
Amy repeats it like a mantra,
willing her respiratory system
to attend to the soul,
not just the blood and guts.

Crippled corpus.

Charlotte has uprooted herself.
Amy’s new additions
appeal more than anything
grown from old seed.
They are
showier,
not prone to disease,
deer resistant,
genetically modified,
hybridized,
sterile,
a safe bet.

Cold frame.

Charlotte will be fine
in her new bed.
She comes from
resilient stock.
She has weathered
drought and flood,
unwanted attention
from deer and dogs,
cats and rats,
and nosy neighbors
trying to dig her up
or cut her down.

Delivery system.

Amy will keep
digging in the dirt,
paring, pruning,
separating perfect limb
from damaged limb,
adding the latest
offerings she finds online.
She’ll water, weed, fertilize
—in short, ensure that
her carefully cultivated,
prize-winning landscape
stays so full of flowers,
she never notices
what’s missing.

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2 thoughts on “Body Garden

  1. I know poetry is good when I don’t need Cliff’s notes to understand it. Awesome image as well. If you are interested in having your photos published, there is a blog that showcases the work of those struggling with mental illness and developmental disorders. I’m not supposing, but the words and images hint at things people like me struggle with-coping day-to-day, loss, relationships, etc. It’s called Broken Light.

    Like

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