The Strangling Vine
by Julie Bolt
Who knows what possessed me, a city girl,
to try and garden. I like weeds that burst
through concrete, not tulips, with their placid
petals, so polished and symmetrical.
Community gardens have boundaries, designated plots.
When you leave and tell me not to worry,
I am ham-fisted. I never cultivate well.
There’s no cell service. But it was a decade ago
when you loved her. Old friends. Work.
Maybe I should take a friendly pitchfork to the garden.
Approximate strangers gather under tenements
to plant rows of crops and flowers in nitrogen oxide
soil. Neighbor Josette tends her formaldehyde melons
tenderly next to Lou’s sulfate particle beans.
I’m growing a vine that sneaks out of the garden, into the world.
Last week our hands were glorious – ripping shirts,
our laugh riots sprouting like crabgrass. I savor,
with faltering trust. I never learned to identity
the calls of birds — other than the pigeon.
Instead of leaves, my vine has grown hands, strong and sensuous.
Upstairs I await an email. I know more about
foreign internet cafes than I do about gardens.
Emails can germinate across continents, sprout on empty
screens. Light speed pollination.
The hands on my vines twist, twist incessantly – carpel tunnel vines.
I bring compost, mulch. Anxiously, amorously, I direct
my vine past the garden fence. The stubborn vine refuses,
its hands are jaundiced but swift, the fingers reach, grab,
and I thrash – landing on concrete – familiar, weedy, hard.
March 23rd, 2007 at 12:20 am
very interestingly composed poem. I’m from NYC, and i know these garden plots that dot the concrete landscape we call “The City”. The vine grows well in this city!
November 12th, 2007 at 4:52 am
The Strangling Vine
(reposted due to lack of line breaks above)
Who knows what possessed me, a city girl,
to try and garden. I like weeds that burst
through concrete, not tulips, with their placid
petals, so polished and symmetrical.
Community gardens have boundaries, designated plots.
When you leave and tell me not to worry,
I am ham-fisted. I never cultivate well.
There’s no cell service. But it was a decade ago
when you loved her. Old friends. Work.
Maybe I should take a friendly pitchfork to the garden.
Approximate strangers gather under tenements
to plant rows of crops and flowers in nitrogen oxide
soil. Neighbor Josette tends her formaldehyde melons
tenderly next to Lou’s sulfate particle beans.
I’m growing a vine that sneaks out of the garden, into the world.
Last week our hands were glorious – ripping shirts,
our laugh riots sprouting like crabgrass. I savor,
with faltering trust. I never learned to identity
the calls of birds — other than the pigeon.
Instead of leaves, my vine has grown hands, strong and sensuous.
Upstairs I await an email. I know more about
foreign internet cafes than I do about gardens.
Emails can germinate across continents, sprout on empty
screens. Light speed pollination.
The hands on my vines twist, twist incessantly – carpel tunnel vines.
I bring compost, mulch. Anxiously, amorously, I direct
my vine past the garden fence. The stubborn vine refuses,
its hands are jaundiced but swift, the fingers reach, grab, and I thrash – landing on concrete – familiar, weedy, hard.
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