Reclamation Project

Early spring this year. Shame, like pollen cruising on oxygen.

Impossible to avoid as sneezing. Fences, barriers, walls, powerless.

The flowers you love carrying it. The fruit you cherish gone without it.

You're smitten with it, left tight-chested, short breathed, out there

surrounded by the beautiful shameful blossoms. So much harder to hide

now that coats and sweaters are off. Like when you were small,

when no one cared about what happened to you, when they left you

alone with your wheezing soul. You can't see it—

your beauty like the irises but so much stronger.

The garden, manic, thunders with green, oranges ripen, gophers dig