In My Garden You'll Find

Milkweed for the monarchswho travel so far on wind-battered wingsto land in quiet desert gardensand on violent highway shoulders.

Cherry tomatoes for the sake of plenty,and so I can complain about excess,and collect them in baskets for the neighborswho likely already have too many of their own.

The table where I sit on dry evenings with cider,a book, and a can of wasp spray, because my lovefor living things does not extend to wingedmurderers and thieves—not even in their own home.

Chives.Because I can’t fucking get rid of them.

Garlic bulbs that were only planted because my father’sgreen hands itched when he saw them wasting awayon my counter, casualties to procrastination,too far into November to be ideal.

A strawberry patch, annually decimated by afamily of voles who eat the roots and digcaverns among the carcasses, but which comesback each year despite the violence against it.

Yerba buena around the faucet,so that every passing abuela knowsmy home will smell of chile and masa,and that there will be tea for her here.