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.