Notes on Recovery
I never expected to be so happy
among the tomato plants, then.
Stake them, overgrown at the end
of her garden, per favore
my mother’s last request.
No gardener, I did my best,
in haste, a little careless.
Her last meal:
pasta with anchovies (con alici)
and a glass of wine. Salt tang
of the Mediterranean pierced
the powdery medication haze
and through it she pushed the wish:
to be once more come prima, as before,
as she gazed at her plants — tangled,
some still slumping. Her last night
she couldn’t sleep, was unable
to stand alone, so I rose
at 2 a.m. to maneuver her upright
the gauzy words
grazie mille grazie mille
laden and swaying between us.
I lowered her into her chair
and she kissed my hands again
and again, lips like paper
drinking the last of our story.
Years later, I stand among my plants,
hunt in the leaves for blood-ripe hues.
Insects buzz the grassy air
as she passes through thick green
checking for plump fruit. Andiamo
and I follow, bowl overflowing.