Springsummer, and the world has left us
with red raspberries and asparagus.
In the cranial space occupied by
my mother’s childhood garden, I
think more grew at one point—lettuces,
dollops of eggplant beading like guesses
on the question of soil. It’s grown strange,
the mind a near monocrop, a turned page
against all odds. Asparagus like children
if left to stretch past tenderness—then
a feathered riot, high as your waist,
deep as a ruffled pool. We face
into the breeze in the spring
because the world insists on shifting
sideways, the tumblers in the season’s lock
clicking like a greenish clock
against the earth’s plated casing.
The sustaining keys are ripening
currently both in my head and along
the house, where their late June song
is a changeable aria, the white notes
fluttering beneath. A certain labor floats
in these folds, these lanky stalks,
and then my mother’s favorite fruit. I walk
though years of raspberries, red dots
like bundles of tiny, vanished thoughts.
Something come then gone. We grow—
until all that is left is o, o, o—
Kimberly Quiogue Andrews is a poet and literary critic. She is also the author of BETWEEN, winner of the 2017 New Women’s Voices Chapbook Prize from Finishing Line Press. She lives in Maryland and teaches at Washington College.