Friday, July 8, 2011


Abuela would have joined them in raising
beak-like stalks toward the sky, in praise
of an apothecary rooted among the bramble.
“In garlic we trust,” she would intone while
wrapping crushed garlic moistened by spittle
on our aching little fingers, our battle scars.
Like wild garlic heads rising from untilled
gardens, we raced to grow beyond littleness,
beyond fearful cowering, and found fingers
to point at the blank sky that would have given
us rain on our demand for clouds to break
into torrents drenching parched soil and bodies
of naked lads and lasses tittering in the rain,
their necklaces of garlic bulbs and parts dangling.
—Albert B. Casuga

In the yard, the horde of wild garlic heads have begun to rise from their private ruminations and aim their long beaks together at the sky.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 07-08-11

No comments:

Post a Comment