My Grandmother’s Garden and other poems

T. Banks-Vittini

My Grandmother’s Garden

There was nothing I could do
watching Mary die. Beside her
I remained as quiet as the flowers
on the mantel, more useless
than my mother’s prayers.

Sometimes she comes
to visit. Once
a mantis perched gently
on the headboard
above me in the early

morning. Once
a large flock of yellow-tailed
black cockatoos adorning the
tempestuous sky the day
before her funeral.

Today she visits me
at work. This time
her name is Sue, and I
help her push the trolley
with the busted wheel

to her car and load the
boot with bags of
garden soil and terra
cotta pots she will use to
grow geraniums and herbs.

She tries to thank me
with a $10 note
discreetly tucked inside
her frail hand like
she always used to

and I refuse
the same way I always did.

— —

About My Mother

when my mother calls i hesitate before
i answer, if i answer, i hurry her along,

grow tired & impatient, try my hardest
to say goodbye as quickly as possible, hang

up, hold back tears when i think of her dying,
what kind of son am i?

my mother lives in a two bedroom for one, she
tells me she feels lonely all the time, tells me

she’s back on her meds, just to feel right again, she
apologises for crying, for the state of her home,

watches her own mother slowly disappear, asks
what kind of daughter am i?

sometimes i think of her & i am a collapsed dam,
sometimes i am her son & i am so thankful, i am

always reaching for the phone, sometimes i am an ocean
of severed glass, sometimes we are more than

the weather we have shared, sometimes we talk but i
do not speak, she may never understand just how much

i need her to stay, how when she leaves i will surely
follow, how she moved mountains with her hands,

how small the word love can sometimes be

— —

Abjection

You head out

for no reason in particular

and note all the ways

the ground beneath your feet

seems to pull you under, how

the pubs on each corner try

to drag you inside against

your will, your palms

stained with concrete, or

how the passing cars draw

you closer, the sidewalk tilts

more and more towards

the road, the yellow line

dares you to finally cross over.

The pigeons ask, Why

are you still here?

You throw them a handful of crumbs.  

— —

Here & Now

Too afraid to turn towards                                       
this life, you allowed                                                
your heart to perish.

The front yard,
morning dew nesting
in the damp branches,
untamed skies, voices,
sunlight, old trees,

& the birds that lived there
offered themselves to you
each day.

Half your soul
languished in patient
yet profound sadness
without your touch.

You thought
you could not handle
any more death & so
retreated from this world.

In building
your shelter against loss,
you denied yourself
the miracle of intimacy.

Listen.

The cicadas are
in the yawning gum trees
conducting their wild symphony.

Listen.

Can you hear the sounds
of the Pacific Ocean giving itself
away in ecstasy to the shore?

Though you have pushed
the weight of your tired body further
& further into the darkest corner

of your enclosure,
this life calls.

Listen.