My Garden


I need no garden, live in a middle of a field of
flowers that have the hue of homemade butter
produced by the milk from cows that have name
like Rosa, Daisy, Buttercup and Rosemarie
(the farm in mind is small.) On big farms a cow
is a ruminant …is, and so on. Gertrude Stein?
Yes. She told everyone she was a genius, yet all
we remember of her words, is that a rose is a rose
till the cud chewers come home to be milked.

“What does she knows about my flowers,”
the rose bush said and stung me cruelly when
I picked one of its offspring for my lapel, I had
an appointment with my doctor and wanted to
look healthy. Next week the field will be purple,
my colour and I’ll regret not being a cardinal.
Yes, I could have been, hadn’t kissed a Marilyn
sister’s lips and embraced her voluptuous body,
till the Vatican became an impossible dream