Ponder Heart

By RU FREEMAN 

 

Eudora writes to William about    roses 
Mr. Hennessey’s Gloire Dijon 
Beauty of Glazenwood found 
on the sides of barns its   yellow 
flaked with red   caught only  
from the windows of passing trains 

& he to her as well   of scented posies 
Lady Hillingdon ascending  
somewhere down a Paris street 
the fragrant double petaled 
Gruss an Aachen pluming with its 
rosettes    Hard to grow with cuttings  
mailed back and forth like their letters 

My father calls to tell me the news 
The lemon tree is dead    She was not 
meant   to live in his tropical island 
She’d left her home   there   in Amalfi 
where her pungent citrine skin showed off 
against the Tyrrhenian Sea   his 
cut glass blue coat flirting flashes 
of white fur still &   un-still       

William’s Irish roses   have not arrived  
honorably in the diplomatic pouch 
Eudora suggests Mr. Maxwell considers 
the gift of an Aquascutum for the willing 
ship captain scheduled to arrive in winter 
To hide the saplings    Ms. Welty means 
Like the friend who docked in rain 
her pockets puffed with bonemeal soil  

My loot came whole    She preferred to travel 
Fabergé style   her fibrous cave a perfect clasp 
and all the hermaphrodites within it singing 
That’s how I like to think they were    
those seeds   their hope   their journey  
to America not unlike mine mysterious & 
foreordained    Their journey through Jaipur 
back to the island similarly impossible   

I should have planted more of those seeds 
My father says and slips a thorn at a female 
relative   to him anyway   I fail to laugh  
He burrows further into his stories of won wars 
the thieves he brought to justice   or should have 
Where his friends are now   incontinent like him 
a-brim with their barracuda stories those 
sharp toothed years   their toothless smiles  

I slip like him a finger awaiting my return 
to their book   their tales of struggle   With plants 
with bread   with writing for The New Yorker 
I slip into the rose bushes my mother planted 
Their unknown names   her unknown longing 
The things we hurry to say before we go 
The way we want to   stay everything  
flowers   robbery   history   us 

 

[Purchase Issue 31 here.]

 

Ru Freeman is a Sri Lankan and American novelist and poet whose work appears internationally. She is the author most recently of Bon Courage: Essays on Inheritance, Citizenship, and a Creative Life and Sleeping Alone: Stories. She is the editor of the anthology Extraordinary Rendition: American Writers on Palestine.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Ponder Heart

Related Posts

Two Poems by Dalia Taha, translated by Sara Elkamel

DALIA TAHA
All we own are our lips / and the pupils of our eyes—the car / will plow into all of this. / And still, life is far too complex / for words like victory or defeat. // Life is Salma on the balcony / moving plants to bigger pots, in her eyes / the settlement’s lights. 

Book cover for Liberal Arts by David McGlynn

Review: Liberal Arts by David McGlynn

NICOLE SCHRAG
Liberal Arts isn’t a satire. Instead, the humor originates in situational ironies that arise from the bizarre juxtapositions that might be made possible in and around universities, where people who otherwise have no earthly reason to find themselves in the same room are brought together.

Book cover of What Remains by Brais Lamela

Review: What Remains by Brais Lamela

ZARA KARSCHAY
Translated into English from the original Galician by Jacob Rogers, Lamela’s novel foregrounds the Franco regime’s work in disappearing villages, displacing its inhabitants, and forcing hundreds of political prisoners to work on its new reservoirs and dams.