Spring. Time to stretch aching stumps and acknowledge that no, you haven’t posted content in two years and let the licensing expire. And though spring’s storms rage outside, we are still here. We stand to be counted.
That in mind, I was going through some old poems today, and wanted to share this one:
Apology of a Greater Beast
When your hair still stuck to your neck,
Before the shearing from November’s nits,
The fringe hid your eyes.
When that wasn’t enough cover,
The planting box
Raised up from the leaded soil,
Made a bigger shield.
It is only reasonable to assume
A small plot in your memory has interred the
Crime of that June morning. And
Ten summers from now,
When your teenage neurons remap the garden
And find the cracked cement patio – just North of the root memory –
Know that your mother, savior of cilantro, murderer of slugs,
Suffered too that day.
You watched, horrified, as the salt mountains grew.
She wasdestroying their bodies, pushing their souls into the
Gardens of Beyond
Where moist, untilled soil and plant matter spread to infinity and
All the toads, anoles and selfish mammals are forbidden entry.
She saw your panic, then terror,
poured the mountains higher
Heard you whisper
“I hate you” for the first time.
She held the words to her heart
Pressed them in
Just to feel for those smaller beasts.