Neighbor While Gardening

POETRY

The pantoum tends to move over the same ground repeatedly. The second form is the free verse version. (And no, this is not about any of my personal neighbors!)

“We are in a mental health crisis.”
I always hate that she includes me in this.
But this is not a time for debate.
I nod, because what else can I do?

I always hate that she includes me in this:
I dig at the soil; root beneath the weed, and
I nod, because what else can I do?
It’s not like my words will be heard.

I dig at the soil; root beneath the weed and
Vow quietly that I will not accept it.
It’s not like my words will be heard.
“There is no way to prevent this.”

Vow quietly that we will not accept it.
We are in a mental health crisis.
There is no way to deny this.
And this is not a time for debate.

Neighbor While Gardening

She has always presumed to know me:
          The nods of passion, the performative sorrows, the embracing
          “We” of her promulgations, her thoughts and prayers that
          I never contradict her.
“We are in a mental health crisis.”
She and I–she is right, we–certainly are.

I never contradict her. Nod in weariness,
          Stir the earth with a hand rake, seek root
          Beneath the weed, here–in this space–
          I am silent and unforgiving.
My vows are wordless.
On what soil would we debate?

“There is no way to prevent this.”
I look at her desperate certainty,
My knees in supplication.