Why not now go toward the things I love. – Natalie Diaz

 

Ribbons of reds and greens from a garden,
friends nibbling on spices and hummus fixed
on a plate, sharing insights into the heart.
Your son, holding up his first catch of the morning,
his smile wide as the bass’s gills. Strawberries
dripping juice, a circle of cheese, chocolate to treat

          the minutiae. (Later, when intrusive thoughts deplete
          me of softness, like bread left open, hardening,
          and the worries and fears that I once buried
          arise and throttle me like an albatross, I’ll be transfixed
          on how I don’t belong here. How to rid of mourning
          that keeps me in dark?)

Remember the hardest working muscle is the heart,
You cannot feel this empty when love is a nutrient.
Remember what you packed your son this morning:
a sandwich shaped in a star, a small colorful garden,
a note reminding him not everything needs to be fixed
and we all can make less of things: berry

          seeds of the weary ground, spinach buried
          in oil, poems stripped of prose. (If we take apart
          our flesh, we will find nightmares affixed
          to our bones. Each night when I am asleep, I meet
          planes flying into towers, failed attempts at guarding
          my children who are asleep yet screaming a warning)

to live in these moments, not just on bright mornings
but at dusk. Sparklers sizzling in children’s hands, inhaling
laughter amidst the pop of moonlight and a garden
of stars. The steady beat of your daughter’s heart
as you untangle knots in her hair, her sweet
voice singing the alphabet, asking you to name sixty

          things! The smell of mango shampoo mixed
          with her voice, ambling like a prayer. (In the morning,
          when despair tries to creep under your sheets,
          consider what’s beneath wary
          thorns of an artichoke: a heart.)
          Someday, you might even grow your own garden.

Children’s fingertips smudged red from picking, the berries
rising out of warming blues. The tug as your sweetheart
lifts your ill-fitted dress, kissing you sticky, his mouth ardent.

 

Tara Iacobucci is a poet and mother of three living in the Boston area. She is currently pursuing her MFA in poetry after seventeen years of teaching high school English. Her work has most recently appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daisy and Synkroniciti Magazine.