In the garden I did not grow, but now minister to,
the measure of my success is cactus, cactus, palm,
then hibiscus, shouting red after recent rain. A fig tree
grows confused among another tree, not yet overtaking it.
I thought I could barter: my effort for your green,
my attention for succulents plumping in the sun.
I thought I’d be a natural at nature. I was proud to know eucalyptus
from dragonfly. To have my own tree bark, mottled. Now I’m learning
I know very little. My weeding is vague or else ferocious. I imagine
gardens in Japan: pristine, elegant, organic. Sri Lankan tropical splendor.
What’s an Argentine garden like? I can picture only bougainvillea
rising hot pink over a white, white wall. My sister’s been there.
I’ll ask her. My garden keeps metaphoring. Birth. Knowledge. Territory.
Are these ones over here weeds or just bad at sharing? They keep
clambering across the ground, their roots choking every other root.
When I pull them out, deep red is their underground color.
Here is a small bush, entirely dead. I can’t do a thing about it.
It wasn’t meant to be, bush, and we both know I had no plans
to keep you trimmed to a rounded shape anyway. I’m learning
I grow unevenly. I plough myself under the cool shadows,
I pout if you refuse me even a little, but I also cultivate patience.
What’s the next season, then? Can I survive another drought?
I’ve thought about it. I’ve found myself out here
on my hands and knees. Sweaty, unmapped, full of dumb hope.
