Anasa Tristis By Ari Gewirtzman
The sun burnt my shoulders redder than the cherry tomatoes In my mother’s vegetable garden I’ve been tending all summer long. The only shade-giving tree blew down in a storm Taking the last few crabapples and a tire swing with it. We talk about planting a new tree, but never do. Inspecting a wilted leaf, Golden as untiring sun, I discovered a squash beetle had destroyed the fat, emerald zucchini Which I should have cooked us for dinner With rosemary sprigs and thickets of thyme I had already picked. The wicked beetle laid its eggs on the underside of another leaf. Nestling its children, as plentiful as the day is long, between the crook of its veins Which hatchlings will pierce into To drain every remaining drop of sap That may have had hope for keeping a blossom alive. I arm myself with the rusted edge of a garden spade Crushing its eggs one by one Until they looked like a rotten blackberry, Chewed up and spit out by a spoiled child. The beetle stopped its crawling and looked me in my eye. “I once loved something, too.” Our wailing shook green bean tendrils As we cried watermelon seed tears.
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