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.
From this soil we mulched a habitat,
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.
She hi-diddled-diddled to Chopin's nocturnes.
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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