Your sunflowers in the garden are gone now,
The weeds have overrun their bounds
Like our river swollen in the rainy months
Brought down from bruised gray clouds from the North.
I used to watch them from the inside through the window
As my thoughts would wander and, often did,
Standing tall and alive in the sunshine,
A charm to ward away bad days.
You would kneel in the garden at your altar
While I watched every moment of your skin
As it flashed and it shone in the sun,
Thin fingers pushed into the black earth,
Like mourners burying their dead.
I wonder if your ever did strike gold,
More than you already had?
I think you sang in that garden,
A place altogether Other than here,
Melodies that brushed along the grasses
And echoed in the creaks and groans of swaying trees —
As they, fingers in that same earth,
Reached for gold and tried in vain, to sing.
I wander now alone the empty
Beds grown fluent in the language of local weeds.
Dandelions stand firm here, and they often number more than me,
A whole backyard-full of wishes, just dying to be set free;
Some kind of fucking house of mirrors and in every one you leave.
I can plot out all the fixed points, place a nail, tie some string:
Extrapolate forever — to one life where there’s a ring.
I forgot to water your flowers, a time too many, I guess.
I get confused near the ending;
I could never finish books.
Your sundresses have vanished from the closet
And all that’s left is hooks.
I’m still in this house.
I can’t seem to leave.
An whole army couldn’t take these memories from me:
I would die, twice, to set your free.