In the Garden
  by Kyce Bello

It is early spring. We watch your children run
laughing through the garden, the bees humming,
sky bright. I begin thinking of worms, the compost

ready for turning, the fruit trees in need of pruning
before this force that causes days to lengthen and grow
warmer brings white flowers to pass, so many

that they rain down onto the patio, the apples
an afterthought. As you tell me about making love
to our friend, these rocks in my garden, smoky rose

with yellow lichen crumbling on their sides, become
more precious. Someone found them, dug them from
where they lay buried in sun-steeped soil, carried them

on his truck. They were placed, just so, in a low curving
wall around beds of penstemon and lavender and lilies.
After so many years of watching, you whisper,

I understand all the muscles of his body. You are grateful
for this knowledge, but wise against the longing
that cries for more. All you can hope for now is the return

of friendship. My garden is a tangle of dried stalks,
leaves working back into soil. No green pokes through
until the children cry out in surprise, thrilled by a handful

of crocuses. The petals are deep, veined purple.
The color of my afterbirth, you say. Like bees, the children
stick their noses in, searching for a smell, a sign.

In the leaves beside the flowers they find a figurine
from Mexico. A skeleton in a dress, cradling a baby.
Sister, this ache for arms to hold you is the same dry

yearning that keeps our friend thirsting for strangers.
Help me straighten these rocks. They are a wall,
but all I have to hold this garden together.