I'll tell you how it was, what she remembers:
the scent of rhubarb and strawberries in the wild
where she hid and the cries of the murdered,
they do not want to die away. If possible,
please give me pills and show me something simple:
a garden with some beds. I'll keep them weeded
with my fingers and one of those short-handled shovels,
tearing out stalks, arranging them in heaps
with no regret, letting them yellow, turn sun-bleached.
Observing fruit will tutor me in color
and weight, in time. A garden should have plenty
of fruit by which to keep track of the calendar.
And trees that herald the spring to come.
When it arrives, I will be ready. Barefoot, wide-eyed,
I'll lie down in my faded shirt on the earth and hide
under the rhubarb, under the strawberry blossoms.
