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The Spanish brought the trumpet-shaped petunia and lemons from the Andes. Nineteen-ten saw eucalyptus and wisteria. Montbretia shoots up lush at winter's zenith. Under the fuschia bells, hummingbirds hover and dangle like fishing lures. My neighbor offers over her side-yard fence, an enormous bunch of spinach, trailing its sturdy, dirt-crumbed root. "Take these; I just let them all go old." And then, when I thank her, "It's really no big deal." But then I have to think I haven't heard her right when she lets drop "in vitro fertilization--" Surely she's talking technology for her garden, for the tiny pear-baby yellow and red tomatoes, the plum and beefsteak jostling to bursting the paper sack that she left on my doorstep. This year she's trained the tomatoes over a frame. But no, she says, she's been looking at pictures of triplets, which happen sometimes, looking at pictures of twins. Casually, as she restakes the little front fence protecting her wildflowers, she says only one in four works out at all. It's always seemed to me she could grow anything. In the fairy tale the wife's craving sends her husband over the wall to plunder the witch's garden. And in the myth, the young girl secretly cradles in her cheek five forbidden pomegranate seeds. And in the pregnant dream, her water breaks on a pool table, so she starts to drive herself to the hospital, veers into a field and--feet on either side of the steering wheel-- gives birth to a boy as constellations glide and whirl over the dashboard, silver and black and red, a kaleidoscopic zodiac. Crouching in the garden, her fingers rake and soften the dirt. Thistle and meadowfoam, lupine, thornmint, butterweed, and lily are all endangered, as are checkerbloom and live-forever, I think as I discover dark sugary trails where I've clutched the root to my shirt.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
4 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
one to read with a cup of tea,
By A Customer
This review is from: Invisible Tender (Poets Out Loud) (Paperback)
This volume feels like it takes place within and just outside the walls of the house you have come to live in. Images of birds, walls, the everyday uneven rhythm of a child and a mother are hemmed by the interior landscape as well as the skunk in the trash. It took me two readings to love this book. The writing is more hushed than a lot of poems coming through the presses at this moment and sometimes lulls the reader into a kind of Clarvoe garden world. However, there are moments of brash clarity that take the reader by surprise and make this a book to keep on a nearby shelf.
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