IN MY GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN

Spring 2023 / Issue 113

James Jabar

for Bernice J. Murphy & Aunt Aggie Jones

in my Grandmother’s garden there grew an unusual fruit
of reinforced calcium that hardened white

over a sweet spongy red and yellow meat
She would pull from underneath the fur and feathers

of frolicking creatures who loved the flavor of Her
eggplants and orange blossoms Her garden looked

like the inside of a gator’s mouth rows and rows of white
protruding outward to enter was to be eaten

consumed by a world She had constructed for Herself away
from words that humbled like mama home & husband

here She ruled between those hours when the moon has
just pulled its starry black blanket over its head to sleep

to block out the sun but the eyes of the world below
have still yet to open though mine did once when i was a boy

who liked to fall asleep in his Grandma’s bed between Her
elbow and rib cage the absent sound of the drum below

Her chest woke me from some long forgotten dimension
and led me out of the house behind the shed and down

the trail of bones where i found Her filling a basket with dark
purple humming a gospel not yet written still being made

bounced back and forth from heart to tongue from tongue to teeth
the lips tight pressed still not ready for whole words to escape

and She never stopped when She saw me just smiled and kept
fondling every purple torso gently squeezing and kneading

at each part of the skin before deciding to pluck or walk away
i had so many questions but this was a place w/out words

w/out wonder w/out a need to be defined or explained or in awe
a place w/out the need to know where and an appreciation

for things that just were where the sound of a single syllable
might break the barrier between existing and living

the same barrier found between plant and people for here
She was satisfied content with whatever was given and also not

but never once did i join Her in the minutes spent in the attendance
taking of fellow fruit just patiently waited until the basket was full

in my Grandmother’s garden it felt like She wasn’t my Grandmother
that we weren’t related. here            Shewas something more honored