The Garden Memory
Sarah Lilius


When I go into the garden,
five again, kneeing the dirt,
my fingers sift the emptiness.
Remnants, dry husks,
scratch my city hands.

When I go into the garden,
I remember my grandmother
plump with sun.
Dark curls tight, resistant.
She grabs me in country arms.

Behind me, the brick house
is a building I cannot enter.
The couple stares from
the kitchen window. The young
woman puts a hand to her mouth.

I walk back to the car.
I find my way
to where there is no room
for gardens, no strength
in city arms.