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Your Garden

Rick Casillas
The Commuter

Friday, April 17, 2009

You and I drunk on slumber wandered high into gardens not kept.

And you said in a whisper away. To the clear black pillars that swelled in the deep of my ocean, that I was not the kindest man you knew, but still you loved me.

In quiet content, I swam fast but could not keep your pace. Then seeing you had left I set my path along the reeds instead. Where a full moon spilled over in silver ribbons, lighting each blade with its withering touch.

It was there I saw the body, bloated and tired from the fat of the water. I laid beside it in our usual way, us two in stillness incumbent of night.

You spoke, the sweet tang still on your lips telling me you fell from the cliff above, through layers of sky stacked atop one another.

As child
As mother
As Crone
As Poem

And I…told you…that you were never alive. It was then you saw that you were the dream and spoke no more.

But I…

I was the branch you broke,
I hunted with you low in the sunless jungle of Ceiba trees.
Brave,faithful.
I was the rocks you fell on.

Still…still I did not tell you what I’d seen that morning. Lilacs bloomed in the windows of your home for you see they were your favorite. And this stone perched atop your body bears little of the tenderness you have.

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