Anna Rojo

The Garden

The garden in my home is dead. 
Dead as the thinner branches of the cherry oak trees fall to the ground, 
Dead, dead, dead—

And I think it could be murdered again. 

I know someone did, and could take the rest of what’s left, 
Dismember the flowers, petal by petal:

Yes, no, yes,  no, yes, no— 
“Does he love me or not?” As the poor daisy’s left without clothes, naked and alone.

Please, leave the roses and lilies alone— 
Oh, my beloved lilies, prettiest around. 
Those were the first lives you took on your first attempt.

Oh, the garden in my home is dead again,
And I could blame you for setting fire to it. 
All that’s left are ashes of my dearest past, the one I wish I could erase— 
But it built me nonetheless. 
Because it brings me back to us, 
To the jazz playing on my skin, 
To the party thrown on my hips.

Because no matter what, 
I can’t be bothered with anything anymore.

If you’re around, hearing somehow the music playing live,
Destroyer of my garden— 
Was this some act of revenge? Quiet actions to prove that you care? 
Jealousy or treason? Choose your modus operandi at once, 
So then I’ll be sure you won’t act up again. 
So then I’ll move my garden somewhere inhabited, isolated, and free. 
You’ll never see my cherry trees ever again. 
You won’t burn my white walls another time.

Oh, destroyer of my garden,  someone has disturbed the bees— 
Was it you? I fear it was you. 
Golden honey now spilled all over the rotten, making a lark of the misery. 
What a beautiful view, when the sun hits just right, 

And the friendly bugs come visit me, 
Braiding my honey-stained hair— sticky and sickeningly sweet.

Oh, destroyer, 
I remembered how much you hate sweet.
And I hate you. 
Innocent of me... 

I can’t seem to hate you.