o grandmother

An array of red clover
A scattering of persimmons
A wineberry, a walnut, some mulberries
A layer of mulch

Vole, dug-up
Rabbit, silting away
Opossum, rotting
Crushed bone

Compost, from leftovers
Seaweed, from the store
Excrement, from everything

A small amount of plowing
The earth turned over
The years

Petals, strewn about
From your planted aisles

Each rivulet of honeysuckle,
Fallen apples
Fallen faces

A land worked
Over time by feet
And fingers

My young nails
And yours
And your mother’s
And the nails themselves,
Clipped, and sinking
Into the garden

Prepping the soil for fruit trees

A long night of Tanqueray
opened my stomach
where the dwarf peach stands

Beneath the missing pine
on which I’ve sprung
leaks all my life

A few planks down the gray
wooden fence, my stomach
spilled again by the plum and pear

Meli sleeps below the heart-
shaped stones: her canine body
a red bath from my shoes to the roots

Where the septic failed
and ran a river
over her

But the pine bush thrives
where Thomas and Monica hid
in the midsummers

During the bloom, I see myself
in the burgeoning peaches
hanging low

The pear and plum
have yet to bear—we lost
the cherry before it flowered

the order in which they went

- for my Father

The stove and the dishwasher, together,
then the washer and dryer.

The septic, the roof, the refrigerator.

The foundation, now, but for a long time coming,
and the floors, which aren’t level.

On the days we work,
you still bring me lunch,
and even now, you make me dinner
most nights.

Yesterday,
while smoking a cigarette,
you told me what it’s like
to see the lightning bugs
reach the canopy.

Today, you said it all goes too fast.