Raised Beds
The summer of virus and loneliness,
I’d walk around the raised bed
crammed with basil, dill, and cilantro,
at least three times,
a gesture that felt almost prayerlike,
though I didn’t believe in prayer.
But wherever I looked,
someone seemed to be bowing
or genuflecting:
a man scratching his dog’s round belly,
my neighbor, knees in the dirt,
yanking weeds, the squirrel,
its small hands touching.
Under the azalea bush,
a stained statue: the kneeling angel—
that spring, my brother,
an early case, collapsed,
then lay for thirteen days in a hospital.
I circled and circled and circled
the raised bed. The romaine lettuce—
its outer leaves heavy,
bending toward the earth.
