In My Garden You'll Find

Milkweed for the monarchs
who travel so far on wind-battered wings
to land in quiet desert gardens
and 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 neighbors
who 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 love
for living things does not extend to winged
murderers 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’s
green hands itched when he saw them wasting away
on my counter, casualties to procrastination,
too far into November to be ideal.

A strawberry patch, annually decimated by a
family of voles who eat the roots and dig
caverns among the carcasses, but which comes
back each year despite the violence against it.

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