The Third Garden

Danielle Meitle

red peppers slide from the earth

and touch air. this is no miracle; 


it is harvest, and in the hands

of reapers, the aroma is an angel


gone mad. the same is true

of an onion: its dingy whiteness,


a bald fist gone mad with light.

roots plunge, and the land,


like a gravestone, tilts. the rain,

of course, is peeling itself softly:


layers of evaporation made visible

for a while though the glazed


expression of the sun is something

to note. after hands have come to


plunge and peel, the angels

are carried to the house in


an apron or perhaps a wicker

basket. although the land is said


to heal in sleep, there are cavities

in the earth which ache and moan,


and the morning will cover this

with the thickest possible light.