by Gemma Malone
the flowers begin to bloom
one by one by one
across my yard
in yellow, pink, and blue
my garden a color wheel
and i think this year
maybe it will all work out

but i know myself
i know this soil
and i know the weeds
and the rot
and the prickly things
i can’t maintain it
i can’t give it what it needs
it needs
i need

and so it dies
not from a force of nature
or encroaching pests
but me
the neglectful and absent mother i am
i see the other gardens
neat and clean and oh so colorful
they tend to the flowers, i think
they pull the weeds and trim the roses
you have to trim the roses. it’s good for them
i’ve heard that many times
but when i look at the beautiful bush
dangerous and inviting
i think to myself, i’ll let it be
surely, it will survive
it will survive
i will survive

it’s a relief when winter comes
and my regrets are covered up
empty flowerbeds and chipped pots
the sad brown twigs and leaves
that once held promising life
yellow, pink, and blue
that i let starve
because i couldn’t bear to fail any other
way but on my own terms
i tell myself
i tell myself

i’ve always been this way
i know i need to tend my garden
trim my roses
pull my weeds
but instead i sit inside and stare
out at my failures
unable to bring myself to my knees and work