Not a fit. She never was at war,
not with
weeds or aphids in the garden.
What
garden? Where lions were dandy,
she licked dew from nettles, no life squandered,
no uniforms here nor rows of reeds and trumpets.
Devils
lurked themselves to absurdity.
The
indigenous wed undocumented migrants.
Orchid’s
tongues wagged a welcome.
Her zone was demilitarized, an orchard of juice.
Peggy did not turn away from combatants.
Between hummingbird and crow she negotiated an armistice.
Her habitat, from this soil we mulched,
stalks sprung at midnight, emergent,
pulsing, she in-dwelled,
saw rhizomes slither, heard
eucalyptus bark, read the calligraphy
of bare
elbows in their naked season
contorting
for a drink of sun.
Shapes slow-danced,
she never
rehearsed the rot,
nor
anticipated the ripe.
Paths leading
nowhere she made somewhere.
She
climbed the walls. Mr. Rios, we joked,
how mysterious
wisteria disappeared.
To
Chopin’s nocturnes, she hi-diddled-diddled.
In the
genius of her lunacy she
made voluptuous
what was gibbous,
probed
craters for nuggets,
never returned
with empty arms.
Finding a plant that splits the rock
was a political act.
Under a
blizzard of pollen, bulbs opened
to their
pistils, sang and are singing still.
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