Not Quite Ripe

My mother’s sister is buried

in the backyard of their childhood home.

Past the side gate that hangs on one hinge;

beyond the aisle of rocks and flowerpots,

withering cacti and devastated tea parties;

around the corner from that old

white-and-blue lawn chair

and the ancient grill where yellow jackets

nest among the remaining charcoal;

between the towering twin evergreens

was my grandfather’s garden,

overlooked by grape vines in the autumn.

Beneath the fertilizer and roots,

the bones of his most prized fruit

lie in wait for harvest, not quite ripe.

 

If you went inside the house, you would know

which room used to be my mother’s:

yellow and black carpet, a twin bed held up

by broken springs, a wooden wardrobe

decorated with arachnid artistry, and

stuffed animals strewn about. In the center

you’d find her sister’s crib,

neatly dusted, always ready with a

new set of crisp azure sheets

and an outfit laid out in preparation:

a white Sunday dress, pink flats with ribbons--

as if her father expected her

to descend from the uppermost reaches

of the front yard yucca,

hips swaying like a field of sunflowers,

eyes brighter than the youngest daylilies,

fully grown and ready

to reap the eternal harvest.

Author's Note

More results of my Creative Writing class!
I'm still pretty iffy about this poem, but decided to post it anyway.

This was inspired by the child my grandparents lost via a miscarriage before my grandma had my mother. They never really got over it.

Reviews

[MoriartyMesa]

There are a great many emotions flowing here, some anger, something deeper. I like it cause it can make a reader think.

[Sami Khalil]

Sad and emotive. Thank you for sharing...:).............

[Wuji]

This feels like the ornamental style of a fiction writer! I liked it, it was exactly what I thought it would be like and highly detailed.