Cultivo

once mourning doves made me think
of graveyards today they peck

at weed seeds clean my land the oldest
on record lived thirty years

and four months from the time
it was tagged until it was shot

how many mates did it mourn

American toads breed at the neighbor’s pond
I wring laundry to hang on a clothesline mostly black

when I was eight a man trapped me
in the stairwell to our New York apartment

the note from his pocket loose-leaf cutout
blue ink print said I was beautiful a scalpel in his pocket

how many would die in a war without weapons

I was born in the middle of an Andean
hurricane the first time

I saw Mamá her blue eyes reflected green
from the flame of a candle

the last time in Florida her eyes were shut
yesterday Aaron and I planned

a garden for our new Connecticut home
asparagus and blueberries can’t be harvested

for two years seeds must avoid hickory
taproots cilantro has to be

direct-seeded doesn’t like to be moved
my sister bought her first house after med school

lived there twenty-five years before renting it out
I’ve moved twenty-five times from rental to rental

clouds dissipate on our ridge
we buy spades trowels pruners window sheers

fog on the trees lingers coats the open grass
droplets vaporize burn the fog

how does one quench an instinct to bolt