The Garden

Just to be clear, this is not a warning sign. I had a bad week, but I also have a terminal cousin, an inability to stop writing poetry of late, and a deep understanding both clinically and personally of WHY people commit suicide. If I may borrow from the brilliant young Anna Nalick to explain what would take me paragraphs, "Here I am still awake writing my song/if I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside me/threatening the life it belongs to...." (Breathe (2 a.m.)
This is not my typical subject matter. I write poems about love, scenic moments, and feminine rage for the most part. Occaisionally about pharmaceuticals, too, but that's for another day. This being said, my dad really does have a garden just like this, sans the dead dog.

The Garden

i am going to my father's garden
in the far west corner of the backyard
early on an august morning waking
walking barefoot through
the dew and dandelions before anyone awakens

you would try to stop me if you knew
how cold it feels on the way
but i am leaving here
it's the only way to stop the bleeding
mortally wounded anyway from
smashing through your glass and stone
and hiding the cuts and the bruises

i am going to my father's garden
it is not the garden of your Father

a muddy dog has been waiting for me
without patience, digging at the roots
while i've been pulling out my own

nibbling fresh broccoli
while i've been bandaging myself in business casual
and wishing only for the smell of homegrown tomatoes
so ripe they split open when the sun comes up

i am leaving here before dawn
while you are all sleeping
and i do not want your Father's forgiveness
to me he's a shoddy creator at best
i only want my father's understanding
he who can plant and nurture his fruits to perfection
want him to know that i wasn't made right
that i was born to rot on the vine,
to toss aside for the rabbits

i am leaving my tracks in the dew
and the sun will burn them away
by the time you begin your day
tossing aside an unwanted gift

to find the afternoon hot and sleepy
sweet orange juice dripping down my chin
lying in the mud with a satisfied dog
before the harvest, to eternal august
i am going home.

3.13.08

sister issues

I had the sudden epiphany that it doesn't make a lot of sense to keep posting lengthy, odd notes on facebook and myspace when I remembered that I, too, have a blog. See, my sister is the one who has the thing about blogging, which in my mind automatically suggests that I do something else.
If I write creative, she writes curriculum.
If she writes fiction, I write nonfiction.
If I write poetry, she writes prose.
If she writes poetry...well, that works as well as me writing LSAT prep material.
She loves Hemingway and I love Fitzgerald.
We never have long hair at the same time, only one of us is Mom's best friend at any given time, and I reverted to Paganism from Christianity shortly after she returned to the Catholic Church.
From this anyone can easily deduct that we're pretty much the same. When we had dogs, they matched. (Hers was evil and mine was nice, though.)
We disagree on politics currently: she says the Consitutional damage is done and the election doesn't matter, while I'm planning for Hillary to take her place on the Supreme Court if she doesn't win.
And I always voted for Hastert after I knew the family and found out that Denny's environmental politics were not like the rest of the kids in his party. Of course, I wouldn't have met them had she not schooled me on the evils of Right-Wingers around the time I was refusing to learn division. I saw his son Josh one day between classes. Being that he was a friend of friends, I thought it quite appropriate to point at him and yell, "YOUR DAD IS A BAD MAN!" When he came out from hiding behind the tree and apologized, it turned out he was an anarchist. Then we were best friends for some years.
She's a mom, and I'm that horrible prodigal aunt who brings presents because I'm not around much.
Only about half of the presents are age appropriate, since my niece is being raised as a regular kid. She's 12, and I think she still likes Harry Potter. I think I was a year past Updike at her age. (Nice to have a practice kid, eh, Tiff? Did Mom really know you were preparing me for the People's Revolution when I was in high school? Yeah, I guess she probably thought it would keep me away from the "druggies.")
But damnit, why can't I use my blog, too? I'm going to, and that is not negotiable, Blog Queen. Maybe Jackie Mitchard's sister will join me. Hmmph.
I wonder how it went down for the Bronte sisters.