Current Issue: Reconciliation
2010-2011
Packing
Marylisa Dedomenicis
My mother cushions her rooms
with dolls she's fallen for, trinkets
that shine and twinkle, tiny animals --
layers her rooms with draped fabric,
green and wood twigged garland,
burning scent-infused candles --
sets her tables with pitchers of flowers
and crystal dishes of candy -- every
sweet thing for you -- everything
an offering, a great flood of joy
to stimulate your senses.
She collects while I wean my rooms
of too many dusty things.
For every trashed box
I say Good. I don't want to leave
a mess behind for others to clean
when I die -- and not much of what
I've acquired will trade for much money.
Still, with this and our differences,
my mother's hands and mine
make good shovels in the pliable earth.
When the ground is packed too hard
for our hands to plough we gather
our necessary tools, work our gardens.
We have this in common.
When the earth is too hard for our fingers
to digest, too cold for our hands
to reach into, drop seed, the bulbs nested
inside reach up and out toward
where we are and we look after them
after they arrive. Tulip, Hyacinth,
Daffodil, Iris. To keep these
for ourselves, we buy
women and men to protect
and defend us so that it may seem
we gather no weapons, my mother and I,
we just garden.