Find A Gardener

So what if your name never

centers the orbit of a love song?

So what, if it never pours like honey from a boy's

heavy tongue?

Your mother didn't grace you

the name of your fore-mothers

to hear it bent in the 

mouths of hungry, foreign things.

Keep it close.

Bury it in the garden of you.

The man who wants it

must come with tools in

hand, and new seeds to sow.