^{After Robert Minervini’s “Improvised Garden II (Water Street)”}

more and more of my friends

are becoming parents or partners

to plants

i have lived long and short enough

to remember the homegirls who

danced non-stop until three a.m.

the moon a parabola to our party

i’ve grown up enough

to see them sing their favorite slow songs

to herbs and succulents on their windowsills

in homes they sowed from dreams

the same sister who once dug a heel into

a man’s oblique now steals thyme with me

off of suburban bushes after brunch

in my neighborhood

when a friend locked herself out—

the same person who loses wallets &

laptop chargers & saves my broken earrings

with a hot-glue gun in her backpack—

this pinay macguyver

has me breaking into her house at night

where we be tiptoeing over her

forest of planted avocado jars

into her dark room to find warmth

the one whose living room and bedroom

once resembled a flea market  

or a super fly thrift store

and sometimes ikea—

the one who let me stay

she pays full price for potters &

vases—pronounced with the short

& therefore expensive ‘a’ sound

one womxn named her garden

“grown and sexy”

bringing new meaning

to the phrase garden hoe.

another who tops burritos with

white sauce dots like queen anne’s lace

also commits the crime of eating

one half at a time, you know, meal planning

with a sweet tooth, she drinks all of her horchata

& knows how

my family loves orchids &

she brings me them for my birthday

or any other tuesday

just because.

my mentee once congratulated me with

mint & basil & lavender & rosemary—

sweet aromas gifted when i

was leaving a job that left me to rot

for another that was not  an office

with no windows, no green

the women in my life reroot

over oceans & provinces & planes to cultivate

a geography of trunks & limbs

reminding me that to decompose

is the chance to live again

my mother’s rose bushes open wide this spring

in her backyard without her

my mother’s body is buried in a plot

of other bodies without mine

isn’t a cemetery a garden

of all we’ve loved?

and isn’t a garden full

of already dead things?

those who bury their beloved

put the gentlest parts

of themselves into soil

my mother is a seed

    the first woman i cannot unplant

       cannot pull or twist back into my hands

her orchids bloom reaching

how delicately the petals hang off

their stakes like gold, glass bangles on wrists

against disco lights   against the ambiance of a food truck menu

like lip gloss    how bougainvillea spill onto sidewalks

like how the sun stays lit

during an eclipse

the flowers in my garden grow lively

& loving & hungry from pods & cinderblocks

my friends are florists

they water & cry & bloom & sleep

from loss & clay & unfolded laundry

sometimes we grow tired & tough

sometimes you have to open a cactus   to cut

pieces off so we don’t grow stuck

arranging the flowers

in my garden

is a lattice

a life lesson

on how

to grow

up.

And in the beginning,

God gave your body

a checklist:

Keep your heart

on beat

and your lungs

dancing with oxygen,

not passive to air.

Make sure

the path of your blood

slows down

for checkpoints

and avoids

bumps

in the road.

Train your nerves

to keep a balanced pace

and stay within

the lines

of steady flow.

Push forward

without putting

too much

pressure

on movement.

Remember

to return to water

when your spirit

and its frame

are in drought.

Treat your body

like a well-rounded planet

built for all seasons,

or pretend you are

an adaptable star:

Float in the black

and stay there

if you need to,

save some light

for yourself.

In other words,

rest like the sun does:

Schedule some time

to stay out of sight

when too many people

praise warm energy.

Keep in mind

all of these things

when depression

tells you

nothing is working.

Keep in mind

all of these things

when it tells you

there is no

invisible force

connecting us,

when your veins

are stopped by blood clots,

when your bones are dry,

and the water

is too quick to boil.

Keep in mind

all of these things

when it tells you

that the soul is like the body:

Made to be broken,

open to deterioration

and doubt. Yes,

keep in mind

all of these things

and remember:

Even when it

seems like

the clock isn’t ticking,

you were made perfectly

for this moment

in time.