KATIE PETERSON

Never a gardener, she
became interested

in gardening. The dying
are known to

make estranging
decisions

about the disclosure
of information.

Everyone knew
where the report

cards were, but the marriage
license proved difficult

to locate. Tomato
and potato vines crawled

up different stakes
in the same barrel,

and she tended
equally the decorative

plants, the lobelia and alyssum
fringing and clinging to

the edges, in the sun
under a visor

fuzzy with the terry
cloth of enough

vacations to forget
the number, to wear

the lettering
into half-glyphs insinuating

but not stating
the location of past

happiness. She knelt,
hinged

at the waist,
thrust

her hands in dirt
feeling for roots

even when
they no longer

needed
tending, even

when fruit and flowers
hung thick falling.