Mouth after the tail of itself––to eat it, too.
Even amid the abundance of that offering, you were distracted by that incessant worry over the stability of your reflection in the glass, thinking that perhaps you could not steal enough to compensate for the original trespass, and it is true, after all, that some suspicions, nursed long enough on themselves, can only find their error by proving themselves correct.
Among leaves
These new ones, just arrived, kept coming to be washed. We tried. To know that river, hear her birds, those faithful attendants hidden behind the leaves of endless pages, the pulse of bees beyond the labyrinth of things that destroy in the name of saving. We try again.
From the dark.
Who now? From these soils, what buried visions. Who knew. Move now. As a memory reaching for the threshold of remembrance. The veins of earth strain. Who is the salve and the wound. Of daughters who learn to flee men. Who buried seven days in earth up to their necks learned to wait. O mother of men. Return.
The art of original sin.
After the age of the reindeer, people took to caves to paint the animals they’d learned to ambush in migration. Horse, deer, bull: each a flash of wild light to spark the chase. So here is where we find the first stories. Once upon a time there was a horse.
The arrow became the first hero. It won against the flesh. From the start, original sin and original notions of power were wedded. The horse, having no tools, ate only the garden. The paintings made the first history a sacred bond between hunter and hunted. To die, the creature had to consent to its killing.
Long after the age of the cave paintings, came a poet. He looked, wondering: to what do we owe the charm of this vivid bestiary? He admitted an answer: only insatiable, murderous, love. It weighted his heart ever after. No, he thought. This would not do. How could he accept this mythology as his birthright?
He went on, looking and writing. What was he making, some new myth? No, it was nothing so defined as the outline of those figures on the cave walls. He was only trying to return, again and again, to the flash of wild light before the chase began.
***
Inspired by Zbigniew Herbert’s essay on the Lascaux cave paintings, from Barbarian in the Garden. Italicized phrases above are his, as translated by Michael March.
Reviewing what it takes to tend to the project of growing something in this world.
In August, remove dead heads from spent flowers, teasing new growth. Teasing new growth, harvest fig, cucumber, pepper. Watch the ants, can the beans, make notes for the next season. Give extra support to limbs heavy with fruit.
This is what you do for a garden in August, unless you are fleeing the blooming fires, unless you are fleeing what will take your life, unless the tending of your tendencies tends in other directions. Still, aren’t we all, always, tending them? Unless we are setting the fires, unless we are taking what others have grown, unless we forget, unless thoroughly spent.
It still seems useful to review what it takes to tend to the project of growing, to review the detailed list of threats that are forever angling to choke out anything that anybody tries to grow, any month of the year. It still seems useful to make note of how there they are anyway, all these gardens and these gardeners, keeping on.
