Picking Thistles, Paxton Schmitz

18 PICKING THISTLES Paxton Schmitz

I smell a garden, A carefully cultivated Collection of blossoms, In the tiny purple petals of A thistle’s flower. I feel the prickle of sharp stings On small bare feet As I run, So young, I have a hard time remembering my own age. I say “young.” Do I mean seven or fifteen?

Through the fenced-in backyard.

The sky’s backdrop a dark wood. I hear the wind whispering Through the branches of trees So much older than me.

That breeze carries along its breath Floating seeds that Land and dig and root and grow. Disrupt the pristine lawn.

My father sends me out With a bucket, some gloves.

I keep my feet bare, The thorns still sting. But that was my fault. I used to cut the grass barefoot. Afraid of my own shadow but not losing toes. I pluck the thistles And the tender yellow flowers Of the dandelions. But they are weeds. And they are ugly. The yellow stains my gloved palms. The thistles still stick through the fabric.

The house I grow in Has a fence made of plastic; So we wouldn’t have to paint it We built it for the dog. But he could still slip underneath. He barked at walkers Through beige plastic slits.

In the garden, The birds eat the strawberries, The rabbits eat the rest. That house ate me alive from the inside out. The thistles grow up alongside the trees.

I pull up weeds even When the fence goes up. Even when no one could see them. We go to church, learn about A sinning man who pulled the weeds Flowers we gave ugly names.

Too early.

Matthew 13:24-30. Am I just another Weedy thing, waiting for harvest to be burned? Is it possible to feel guilty for something You don’t believe is wrong?

Whispered prayers are By howled wind drowned out. I sit on the front porch in summer heat, Unable to tell where the thick air stops And I begin. I wait for having a body, for being a person to make sense. It doesn’t. There’s thistle seeds between my teeth; There are thorns in my blood.

I sit And wait Just a few more years, just months. I’ll tell them, I’ll tell them. There’s dandelions behind my ribs. And I put on shoes Before mowing the lawn. I uproot weeds Who were they hurting in the first place? Behind plastic fences.