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.