Kimberly Quiogue Andrews

The Garden

(Northville, Michigan)


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.