And I think I’m talking to angels these days—coming through a blue crystal with a name that
ends in ite. Resting my hand on my heart,
I wait for the name.
As I ram the knife through, raw beet juice bloodies everything it touches. Spraying my skirt, my
stovetop, my wall, my window. I’d have to stab a real heart for this much bitter and alkaline
bursting. Then. I chop the greens: celery, beet, and carrot leaves. Cupping them in my palms,
they turn, piles of feathery wings. Turning feathers. Like an offering, floating smooth into my
No one on my street would be doing this.
But I think it’s braided into my DNA—yesterday I re-arranged drying roses for my grandmother
so she wouldn’t have to crane her bruised neck to view them from the hospital bed. Explaining
the newly found condition that pushed her down the porch stairs, she gestures—
my heart just goes—
and paints the pistachio‑colored air with arthritic knuckles. Sounds of birds. Doves softly
touching. The moment.
I have no garden. Nothing is wasted.