Garden

By Ana Dominguez

i can never quite get the right words out.
like a garden, the cavity of my diaphragm blooms,
and every time i pay her a visit
i am not sure what i will pick from her flowering cocoons. 

at times, it is a beautiful petal; brilliantly colorful and playfully light, sincere. when i am not careful the pulsing buds are painted in heavy thorns;
i pluck blades of itchy grass, mounds of coarse dirt,
and shards of mundane life that have long since lied here. (these cut at my lungs, from time to time,
and let the fragility seep out from behind my aching lips.) 

i cannot maintain this garden, for she keeps herself;
the product of her agenda
has always been more akin to a jungle than anything else. with danger, with magnitude,
with prying eyes, and bated breath.

the right person comes, one with shining eyes that nudge  the pleasantries i keep into their gently prying hands. and i try to weed my flower beds, sweep the cobwebs, and trim the overgrown hedge.

i misstep, and become a living, decaying swamp.  flooded, a garden that once was—
i bleed from my pores and open sores;  glimmering greens that hide a home gone damp.