Emily Jacko
Her Garden
My once Beloved, picked me out of a crowd.
She reached for me, I feel for her.
She took me home
Watered me
Stripped me
Cared too much, but most times not enough.
She changed my color
She changed my roots.
I was a peduncle.
Her words “I love you” exchanged
To plucking my body limb for limb
she planted me.
Arms and legs first I watched
in to the dirt they went.
Observing her water them she went
to dismember the rest of me, me.
The peak and falls of my brain much like us
buried with prose I was holding for you
will go unwritten
unread
She hated so much the color of my eyes
now the color of the dirt.
My lips that she would kiss has now met with an insect.
My torso, the last to leave she takes my heart which beat solely for her.
Blood and memories
Blood and memories.
I wonder what the rest of the plants think.
I cannot stop her.
Will the others thrive in their new compost?
Seasons change, and I only get fed when it rains.
About the writer:
Emily Jacko is an MFA student at Chatham University. She writes about human ideals that are found throughout nature. She also uses extended metaphor in much of her work.
Image: The Magnification of Chaos by Conor Mccreedy (1987-). Pigment, oil paint and olive oil on Belgian linen. 70 x 70 cm. 2019. By free license.
