The Dead Grandma Garden
A Universe With Dreams Inside
a crunchy bus pulls up to a garden
an imaginary garden
or at least thats what the kid in the back of the bus thinks
they point
grandmas garden is buried under apartments and asphalt
see right there
apartments and asphalt
sposed to be a fancy road
for fancy people
on the way to DisneyLand
a never built fancy road squashed grandmas house
like a bug it didn’t like
under a boot called we own you
we own the dirt
the poor
and sometimes
children
boots squash
dirt poor grandmas with tiny houses and tiny gardens
boots dont see
a universe with dreams inside
daddy had a boot called i own you
mama too
learnt the dirt poor lesson
one after the other
someone owns you
someone owns everybody
now i get to own you
i need to own something
youll do
i dont see
a tiny universe with dreams inside
i dont see
you
grandma made dirt poor magic
a hose in a coffee can
roses bloomed
her red nail polish whispered no one owns me
i own me
and in this dirt i made a universe
squash the dirt
the roses
the house
my voice
even my dreams
but boots cant squash the memory of my red nail polish
or the roots of me
even under the asphalt and apartments cooking in the sun
they breathe
the bus door shrieks open
the kid that pointed to the apartment on asphalt seems surprised
the fence around the dead garden looks real
no one moves
a dead grandma garden might be scary
until we smell roses
and cigarettes
asphalt cooking in the sunlight
smells like pinto beans and bacon grease
old varnish
dying cardboard christmas houses
toast
many slices of toast
and fading glitter sprinkles
a car honks
the click of a pedal as a bike passes by
did birds chirp
yes i believe they did
one by one we pass through the creaky gate
each letting it slam before the next comes through
one after the other
a parade of satisfying slams
and sighs
lots and lots of sighs
did you know dichondra has a smell
a cloud with a feeling smell
gently
ever so gently
dont crush it
green
it smells like green
and comfort
a person starfish
gently buried in dichondra
heads connected
like a hydra
of children
and me
one runs down a narrow path
past hydrangea
flaky petals dangling in the dew
and then
a chicken coop
no chickens
only birds
and crushed feed
birds go quiet
we are the boot
until we leave
one tightrope walks around a tiny pond
dont slip
one hunches in a ball and waits
fish hide
under the goop
we need a place to hide
otherwise
we are birds
huddled in a corner
exposed
until they leave
one pops ballerina flowers
one after the other
pink juice stains
like blood
on white towels
never leaves
one hides from the backyard shed
no one inside
no one inside peeks out
one tightrope walks around the shed
to the tall trees
and huddled in the sky
no one finds
me
i smell lemons
and tacos
maybe gingerbread pigs
grandma’s apron
roses and bacon
tortilla dust
no one makes linoleum anymore
or doors that swing
beds in walls are trapped mice after the hole is filled
hidden passages
hide n seek
i see you
you cant find me
echoes
dishes laid out for supper
a radio
in spanish
didn’t you hear me
i said english
grandpa playing the guitar
a sad song
a lonely longing song
in spanish
i hear english
its christmas
boots on the roof
and at the door
santa had too many drinks
thats how it is
year after year
ghost family after ghost family
old people into new people
haunting
one after the other
a creaky gate slamming between us
the cardboard christmas house smells like toast
dead dreams
and love trapped in asphalt after the hole is filled
on the bus i think
people in the apartments must wonder
why they are sad
when the smell of corn tortillas and roses breathes up through the asphalt
and ghosts sing lonely longing songs in spanish
while giggles hide in the trees
they dont hear
the echo of the boot that squashed a universe
called grandmas garden
they dont know
ballerina flowers make pink juice stains
if you squash them
like blood
on dreams
This is stunning.
The photographs poignant.
The sensory experience palpable.
Thank you.