Grandma’s green fingers were not
Were brownblack stubs were
Rooted like pregnant mandrakes
Gripping the soil she were born in
Muttering into the willow branch
Jaw locked as she cropped them
The words born feral OM
Only one other understood
In the green rain of the branches
Stood these two mothers
Old-timer and nature
Both tender executioners
Tending to each other
I begin to understand
The jungled one;
Garden rituals readying one
For the witless and slow destruction
No battle cry to Death
Just the gentle rot
As senseless as the bamboo
Rising from the tumultuous dirt
I watch my mother
Plot the same path
Down to her mother’s house
Cleaning her
Clenched teeth
Her matted hair
Sharp nails
Cut
The mud is shining beneath
The rails of bamboo fence
The green storm of summer
Railing against its end
