Desideratum

In dew my mother hunched to weed the rows,a red bandanna damp across her brow.Her flip-flops wore their narrow paths betweenthe seeds of beans and lettuce that she hosedbut would not grow. Superstitiously

she blamed the wooly braids of sumac vinesthat sought our maples’ lightless canopyand tore their poisoned curlicues in burstsof rage that rashed her arms and left her proppedbeside a fan for weeks, alone inside

regret. I blamed the cemetery gloomthat jutted up behind our yard, the sprawlof graves that seemed to leer at me betweenthe teardrop holes on the rectory’swobbly metal fence. It slackened from its posts

a little more each time I climbed acrossto spook myself and beg those hometown ghoststo let our garden be. At dusk I’d pickone stone to kiss while shouts for supper sentmy name across the lawn with loud fatigue.

Their bunches clutched tight, the dandelionsI ripped from plots in my transplant schemebegan to wilt before I scrambled back.Aluminum felt colder for the moon.Its tinny clangs scared the squirrels, echoing

against our brick. I sank down to my knees.With gobs of spit and tidy patted moundsI drove each stem in twilight dirt and prayedfor all the mossy crosses I had robbedto make them rise again, gold and unafraid.