The sunchokes lean and crowd in the corner
of the yard, the teenage girls of my autumn garden,
shy in their height and prickly armed, a joyous yellow
that seems planned to bridge from August’s wilt to fall
if you didn’t know their tubers kill other tender perennials.
Some days I get caught up in the happy semblance:
flowers from the yard to fill a vase,
my grandmother’s ice blue, smooth-lipped plates
set for our evening meal;
or husband, kids, cats and dog,
crowded onto my bed, our warm animal smell—
but the friend who gave me the rootlings
said, “be careful, they will spread”
and then stepped out of my life for good,
leaving me on my knees to curse and tear
through more than one summer day;
and my grandmother taught me
to candle incubating eggs—shine a too-bright light
through each milky shell,
confirming the life fluttering on the other side—
because “yolkies,” “quitters” and “winners” all look the same
but some of them are ready to explode.
(note: “yolkies” are eggs that never fertilized; “quitters” are eggs that fertilized but failed to keep incubating; and “winners” are eggs that have live chicks in them)
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 6.
Lisa Rhoades is the author of The Long Grass (Saint Julian Press, 2020) and Strange Gravity (Bright Hill Press, 2004). Individual poems have appeared widely including at Poetry East, American Poetry Journal, and SWWIM, and are forthcoming in Southern Review and Calyx. She is a pediatric nurse and lives on Staten Island with her spouse and their children.
See all items about Lisa Rhoades
