Page 66 - TheBridge_Vol16

GARDEN OF TRASH

Dajuan Frasier

I sit in my garden of trash banging on my invisible drum
the words on the wall hear my wailing and rocking back and forth
they say “thorn” and “dirt” and “soil”
but nothing ever grows here.
No roses from the concrete that cracks when my voice does,
no grass because I eventually had to eat it all,
the leaves here are made of tin foil.
My wailing gets louder
because I want the words to say
“spring” and “petal” and “water”
and I want it to rain the right way.
Not plastic-swims-down-the-road rain but,
I’m-5-again-with-no-vices rain
and angels hold me under the arms,
so I splash in the puddles instead of drown.
And I want that beautiful woman to stop looking down on me,
we’re the closest thing to God and the Devil in this garden
and I don’t know where I fit in that equation.
But this garden doesn’t work like that
and now I can’t find my drums or the sticks
just empty hands, blistered,
forgotten by the late shift cats who dine in alleyways
and are ignored by the hands who feed them.

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