Kathryn Merwin
Genesis
You’ll plea another hole in our landscape today. Plant a yellow sun sugar in terracotta.
One day, the dark earth in our hands will belong to us. You will be king of earthworms,
green lacewings and spiders.
We spend a rainwarm Friday packing lavender into pots on the porch. My fingers are
black crescent moons. You scrape your knee on a loose piece of wood. We can always
fix it later. For now, we’ll drive home and watch a documentary on haunted houses.
You’ll open the window and let the bay dusk roll in. I’ll slice beefsteak tomatoes and let
them weep in a hot pan. Crack peppercorns and slide a spoon through basil oil.
What I mean to say is, despite this gnawing, filthy world, we will plant another garden.
Our coffers will burst with Bonnie Green Bells in June. A crush of blue starlings will nest
in our boxwoods. Your pepperskin palms will drop seeds in more dirt.
Kathryn Merwin‘s work has appeared in The Boiler, Hobart, The Journal, New Ohio, and Blackbird, among others. She has read and/or reviewed for the Adroit Journal, the Bellingham Review, and WomenArts Quarterly, and holds an MFA from Western Washington University. Her first collection, Womanskin, is available through CutBank Books.