Heirlooms

I

A garden does not grow blue china
chicken bones or brass keys
but all of these
found when the soil turns over,
times when the hoe can't go
any farther.

Mother pulled a teaspoon
out of the ground.  
Told me to wash it
for supper.  


II

A clearing does not begin a garden 
just as a house does not begin a home.  
It must be lived in,
plotted
sown.  

My mother's garden
was first a hole
dug for the outhouse,
a place to throw 
the kitchen scraps.  

I often think of this
when squatting in the dirt,
dusting the heirloom tomatoes.  


Depression Glass

I

When she died I rescued them from auction.
There was no room in my apartment,
but I found shelves for sugar bowls,
for egg cups and cake pedestals, 
packed them into boxes,
moved to other cities,
moved and moved until I forgot
what it was I carried 

and the bottom fell through.


II

I wish I'd known her.
Know her only by gravy boat, by saucer,
by my mother's story that
she loved the movie theatre,
the five and ten, wherever
there was brightness, wherever
dishes were bought or given,
that she went there, 
collecting them.  

Only in these pieces do I know her,
but there is a kind of comfort 
in a dinner plate
cracked as it fell,
surface almost gone,

the light scratches 
of many forks.
 

Peter

I like you
the way you are now,
head in a garbage bag
puking your guts out.

I will still like you,
it's a thing we all do—
we show our insides
to each other
when we're not ready.