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