The Garden (Florence Helbing)
There was a narrator somewhere, giving
names to things. I lived
near a garden, was often
dipping my fingers in
the pond, disturbing
that smooth pane
“You” was a word
to which I responded “I.”
“I” was the word
that gave me a shape
different from that of the earth.
That was when I started to wonder:
what is that picture there, in the pond,
when I look?
The body was a room.
It had been prepared especially for me.
Meaning: I should be grateful.There’s no door, but there are windows.
They’ll have to do.
The weight that displaced the grass
was my weight. I now had to say,
“I have displaced the grass.”
There were days I went to the garden,
ripped the flowers to their roots
from the dirt. Perhaps
I was looking at myself:
that, the crack of bone, trickle
of blood, skin arching
away from muscle.
As though I could give it up—
as though nothing
would ever take it.
© 2012 Florence Helbing
Florence Helbing is currently in her fourth year at Dickinson College studying Spanish and Russian Language and Literature and minoring in poetry. When not working as an assistant at Helbing Studio, she writes poetry and explores Chicago, looking for the best Mexican restaurants. Her interests include reading, writing, language and Mexican electronica. In 2013, she hopes to return to live in Russia.
(Image © David Denny)