Blossoming
by Emily Banks
In the Children’s Garden,
we pull plants when they try
to flower—sheer white
petals of arugula,
sun yellow broccoli
we let grow too long.
I kneel beside them, knees
caked in morning mud,
choosing which to uproot.
Now we dissect:
pluck ovaries and seeds,
take what we need,
compost the rest.
I have to tell them,
when a plant
starts making babies
it sets its mind
on just one thing.
Leaves and roots
turn bitter, thin,
no longer soft
enough for us
to slice. It throws
all strength to stamen,
pistil, pollen, sweet
scents and bright attire
to lure the bees.
The little girls I teach
still want to work
only with other girls,
trios and pairs who share
their snacks and clutch
each other’s arms
when I let them run
through sprinklers.
Who ever grows up?
When the cold water hits
my face, I still scream
just as loud as them.
But I remember, then,
this same garden, just over
their age: my junior counselor,
tan, half-smiling, rolled-up
sleeves, who I’d tease
like an older brother
but with some new
sense of shame,
heavy flow of heat
to my face when I slapped
his arm or punched
his stomach, stole
his baseball cap—
until I saw them
on the street, his hands
looped through her jeans,
all sweat and adolescent
longing, saw their eyes
turn down, away from me,
and I felt something
growing tough, too fast
to prune or trellis, a stubborn
weed no one had taught me
how to cultivate
Emily Banks is a senior at UNC - Chapel Hill, currently writing her thesis in Senior Honors Poetry, and interning for the Carolina Quarterly. She grew up in Brooklyn NY and is hoping to attend an MFA program next year.
Copyright 2011-2013 West Trade Reivew
