Companion Plants

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

I have picked up so many books
lately about compost and gardens,
about how seed take root,
about the systems of life:
insect and loam, vine and water,
aeration and mulch.

This morning, I told you my plans.

You asked me if I wanted to
plant flowers or fruit,
something delicious to look at
or something delicious to eat

and I decided, if you were a seed,
you would be both.
I would make for you a bed
of decadent soil, sweet earth,
and bathe you with clear water.
I would blanket you in winter,
tend your fresh seedlings
and your first green shoots
just to see you bloom in spring.

One of my books taught me
about companion plants:
species that flourish best
when grown together.
They shield each other
from wind and blight,
roots intermingled,
a nourishing symbiosis
that yields healthier growth
for both.

I’d like to plant myself
beside you and see
what kind of garden
we could become.

Bucket List

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

You asked me once
if there was a list of things
I wanted to accomplish before
I died.

My list is so long.

I want to wander it all:
Arashiyama, Giant’s Causeway,
the glowworm caves of Waitomo.
Even the old coal mines
of Bibb County, Alabama,
even the cracked streets
of backwater towns no one
visits anymore but coyotes
and weeds.

I want to explore all the secrets
this world tucks into her rocky deserts,
into her wild grasslands, into the valleys
and caverns slung beneath her blue sea belly
like stretchmarks three days after
a new mother gives birth.

I want to write a thousand books
about all the beauty I’ve discovered,
about all the raw ugly beauty of us,
and buy with them a place
among my idols,

and if I can’t,
I want to subvert them:

to scrawl 10,000 poems
like graffiti into the walls of buildings
on every continent on this planet,
even goddamn Antarctica.

I want to hack the airwaves
and interrupt these
regularly scheduled programs,
to interject poem
after wild guerilla poem
between the nightly pundits
and the shitty sitcoms
and the car insurance commercials.

I want to experience weightlessness,
to slip the chains of orbit
and see the world the way asteroids do,
to fling my poems down from satellites
and watch them burn up like cinders
in the atmosphere or crash into cities
leaving craters so smoking and wide
they can never be forgotten.

I want schoolchildren to know my name;
I don’t give a damn if it’s for greatness
or for infamy.

All these grandiose things
are never going to happen.
But truth is, I don’t need
any of them to be content:

Let me hold your hand every night
for the rest of my life, even if
my fingers grow arthritic and gnarled.

Let me kiss you every morning
for the rest of my life,
even if, in my old age,
I forget the sound of your name.

Let me write for you
one little poem every day:
a haiku, a cherita, a rhyming couplet,
if that’s the only thing I can muster out.
I just want a poem for you
as the last words
to breathe past my lips.

That’s all I need.

Valentine’s Sevenlings Have Been Delivered!

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

If you ordered one of my Valentine’s Sevenlings, please check your email. All poems have been mailed out, so you should have them. If you didn’t receive yours, please contact me so I can find out what went wrong. 🙂

Thanks to everyone who supported this project!