We had mushrooms for dinner, roasted
Portobello caps, constellated
Tops speckled from how the moon shines on
Some more than others. Because the moon
Is never fair. It lights up the sky
But forgets the deepest crevices,
Not inside the earth, not quite, but just
At the surface, where plants strain their necks
Like wavering chimneys to gulp down
The light, however weak, however
Putrid, and where mushrooms lie awake
In silence, belly like tops curved to
Reflect the moon, but wishing with all
Their might for it to rest on their backs
And sing them to sleep, in the night,
With trembling hands, she shows me her
Rock collection, how, on her wheel, she
Sharpens and shines blemishes away
Until they slip through her tan, calloused
Fingers. She plucks stones from the rusted
Garden bucket and does not mention
Death like I knew she wouldn’t, but holds
The sleek rocks up to the light, spinning
Them to show me each side, each angle
Without any specks to remind us
Of the garden and the hot Midwest
Sun, just the surface reflecting the
Blue moon of her iris--a collection
Burnt smooth and carefully curated
For her late-night audience of one.
Rosa Canales is a recent graduate of Denison University, where she studied English Literature and German. She currently resides in Columbus, OH.
Twitter: @rosacan9
Instagram: @rosacan
Comentaris