“What wonders the compost bin is revealing, and who put in that avocado pit?”
That sounds like something I would do
I flash back to our full paper bag
That ends up behind our apartment complex
(And then? Who knows.)
Atwood has been gardening again
Planting and pruning
Knowing the helpful from the hurtful
Creating a balance I don’t understand
The generations before me,
Three of which I lived with,
Had farms
Or at least gardens
But they let me read
And kept me out of the chicken coop
My brain grew well red
My thumb grew black
My foremothers didn’t read dystopias
And my grandmother “retired” when her husband did
So I can cook, but not can
Sew, but not quilt
I’m not prepared for the zombies
Or even, as Atwood tweet-warns,
For the solar flare
Or an EMP attack
In my fantasy,
I find Atwood,
Who is prepared
In her books,
I’ve learned about replenishing ararats
And purslane
And what to do when it happens
I won’t be much help to her,
In terms of knowledge,
But I like to believe
That I would follow her directions
(Fantasy me is less bossy)
Not wasting her time
(Except in those moments
When she wanted me to)
I imagine us safe
-Ish
An evening lit by candles we made
After a cobbler that didn’t disappoint her
I would have had trouble
With the wood fire stove
But I’ve always known how to milk goats
And any fool can pick blueberries
(I even know to wear gloves
And watch for snakes.)
I manage to say something
She thinks is smart
And she laughs
And tells me to call her Peggy
And we no longer have leftovers
So I don’t have to worry
About the compost rules
