“Garden” & “Soul of Mine”
→ PUBLISHED IN ISSUE NO. 24: FALL/WINTER 2019
Garden
The morning after his sudden death,
I walk barefoot on a dewy path
to my garden on the hill past
a creek where I pick up a grass
snake that coils my finger, flicking
his red, black-tipped tongue before slithering
toward the signal of spittlebug larvae
growing within gobs of frothy
foam. If I had not watched
him vanish among the runners of strawberry
plants, I would not have seen the cottontail
of a rabbit the size of a fist, his belly
breath quick & short,
his foot tangled in the vine-like growth.
Careful not to curse him with my
scent, I unravel the vine.
He does not scurry off. Too terrified
to flee, I think, so I lie
down between parallel rows
of snap beans yards away, hoping
his mother returns. How long will you wait
for someone in a nightmare? When I wake
from an unintended nap, this rabbit
had moved on to the trappings
of rigor mortis, his mother’s
milk too far gone, so I bury
him near the feeder roots of roses
climbing the fence casting ladder shadows.
Soul of Mine
Fig root, truth broth, beauty bean of my butter hull,
shall we rid the wheat field of sorghum bugs?
Shall we watch worlds end then begin again feet away?
Why must the wheat solicit ants?
Shall we open like an orchid & close like an accordion
as we confess to stalks of wheat we imagine
to be the hairy legs of God? We need the good rain
from over yonder to plow through rough days.
Shall we burn the pasture? It’s time to shed her skin.
I recommend removing your boots & socks.
Charred grass feels like stepping into a Cracker Jack box.
Go ahead, get naked. We’re in the boondocks
after all. So you know, talking to you is like listening
to rustling leaves of maple trees ordained
to be the wind’s tambourine. My bluebird blazer,
do you see that husk sailing above flames?
Shall we save the larvae praying in silk cocoons,
tuck that husk in that rusty spittoon
beside the shed? I’m so pleased we agree.
Scott Bailey
Shall we slice the cream cake while the fish eat?
It’s soothing to watch rocking lily pads.
My lilac britches, we must snapchat
this sky, befriend these clouds like tractor tracks.
Let’s text this sexy sunset cruising hills.
Why not walk a mile on his helium lips?
I hear his kiss is a starry walk of bougainvillea
before he marries you in flames. Roger that!
I’ll wear a water corsage since flesh burns.
Of course, escort me to the firefly prom.
You are my sergeant in arms who yearns.
Shall we wet our whistle? Skinny-dip the moon’s halo,
tread her whitewall tire of heaven’s sequined hearse?
Remember when we walked to our first wake?
We imagined the Big Dipper as a depot
where souls wait
for the next bus to God in us but beyond our universe.
Remember when that paper bag of pears
gave out? We were like those pears, silly gals
giggling everywhere. Remember when
we hid in the pulpit, fell asleep on stacks of hymnals?
We dreamed of a fox that climbed a sweet gum
to return finch eggs that wiggled from nests.
Called Cotton Top, I was a sprout in need of rest:
You were busy, teaching me mercy & kindness.
If not for you, my winnebago, licorice chorus,
I’d be a dead-end road, a stagnant park.
May we blossom on the hillside of harps
when we disperse.
