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War Talk
I think I could turn and live with animals

Whitman, where are you?
My ear's to the grass

Underneath this spring morning's
dazzling glass, things seem
eaten away at the root-
end.

The orchards are full-tilt, a glut
of almond, peach, plum, wild
radish in and among, oh-
so staggering beauty's birth-
death dance.

The world is still
at it - bomb-bloom, bodies
sprinkle topography here and there,
children as you know, their souls
hauled north, tucked back
into snow, spilled carelessly
just about everywhere, blood
seasoning. Used

recklessly
to spice the arguments for
and against, by some chillingly sane
politico.

Sweet fennel creeps out
along the river where wild grape
snakes. Few know the delicate
and fragrant white blossom-lace
they'll find there come June (if
we're still here) is old
hemlock's American cousin.

Allons! Camerado!
Those who do identify
the toxic flower's graceful
poison may have to fight the urge
to eat the blossom heads
whole.

Prison Garden

Two guards with metal detectors search
for homemade knives in the formal rose garden,

where inmates who earn the privilege can sit
and admire the simple sky, the horizon

of scented blossoms in season (even thorns can provide
a soul with its native weather) and a sculpture

built from manacles and prison rock. The guards are
vigilant, the inmates ingenious - they'll craft

weapons from twist ties, paper clips, even melted
plastic garbage bags; last year someone was killed

by a newspaper spear. There's also agapanthus here -
gazania, zauschneria, ceanothus: Drought

tolerant, xeric plants. They'll never have to pray,
Lord, how I thirst in this dry place

"Prison Garden" appeared in A Camellia for Judy, Frith Press, 1998.

© All Copyright, Susan Kelly-DeWitt.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.