tried for greens in the hump of bed
the foot of my place. Silver-purple legs of kale
gimp, leaves cardamom-tinged with damp,
for limey wads of slug. How one hole dissolves
the starts, but not at once. Staggered, haggard,
leaves stand their ground. A bullet-pocked flag
its pole,—and then there’s my mother’s arduous garden,
cultural revolution of black-eyed susans,
the stained and lacquered death,
mean deck, of the house the strange red man
married to built. Dumb flowers with one huge
agape all the time.
garden seeded in conditional mud. One stem reaches
small person’s height.
boat waits in the brown shallows
fingerling shadows turn sea lettuce tendrils,
and soft, against our ankles—
place where edges
saline and riverine waters exchange,
the foxglove, digitalis, lean toward the highway,
plastic wrappers glimmer among
waters’ luster. We push off and feel
current, and the dry spring winds.
have to hit the rocks to reach the openings.
Sutter is from Pennsylvania where she worked as a child in the coal mines,
before her brief stint as a nun, before her briefer stint as a butcher. Now
she is a poet who lives in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has appeared or is
forthcoming in Fence, The Awl, Windsor
Review, The Portland Review, and various other artisan journals.
Archived at http://lit.konundrum.com/poetry/sutters_poems.php
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