THE GARDEN 

​

This body is made for movement/

song and dance

work and sweat/

pick and sift red clay and stone/

till the soil ‘til 

brown beds raise themselves

into a home  

of sweet peas and squash/

cabbages the children will not eat,

tomatoes to be fried green 

or stewed with the mucilage of okra/

 

this body was made to tend to the garden 

firm hands 

just gentle enough 

to snap purple hulls and avoid worms,

pick trees of fig and plum-

plump and juicy like 

the hips gifted 

by big mama and cornbread/

 

grape vines etched into pecan-skin hands

make themselves known as the soil is worked,

and the grass parted like tender-headed plats 

done on the front porch

between grit-creased knees

risen from earth and alter/

 

rainwater and raised beds are 

to canned grease and scalp/

there is a healing after the fire

and the beans begin to sprout

as babies learn mama from milk/

 

 

come to the garden

and see for yourself 

the movement/

the growth/

The One. 

 

 

Sincerely, 

Marzetta