I rub my grandfather's belly, digging

With his shovel and shoes, his elbows.

He sweated as he hoed the rows for me

When I was seven and free with water.

His short-sleeved white shirt was wet.

He wiped the sweat from his face,

Smiling above in the face of the sun.


He never heard the toad in the yard telling me

Tales of hobo jungles I searched for down alleys

On corners in parks where I set myself adrift

From my parents who never heard the roses on the

Wallpaper whisper to me as I dashed blindly

From my room to theirs nearly swallowed up

By my own bed; and my father's pants

Hanging on the door hovered like a grey

Ghost ready to smother me.

As I dig this garden my mother sings to me through

A shell: I unearth an abalone chip, a half-

Smashed china pitcher, stones, test tubes, pieces of

Glass and aluminum, knives and nails, a rusted ring.

My grandfather watches as I dig and hoe, turn and sow,

As I water the rows: I'm picking fruit from his body

While my mother's singing follows water and echoes