Lizards & Sliced Tomatoes
One people shall be stronger than the other.
In the small square of earth
back behind our father’s garage,
my brother stalked lizards—
blue-bellied, silver-quick, tailless and tailed.
That explains his anger
at my digging up his ground,
chopping the dirt with a shovel,
preparing the soil for sowing.
Soon, sunflowers grew, their ten-foot faces
bashful each dawn, turning toward the sun;
cucumbers, carrots, red leaf lettuce;
swollen zucchinis, artichoke hearts.
On nights when my bounty
blessed our mother’s table—
cherry tomatoes sliced into salads—
my brother would eat only meat.
After dessert, as the moon slowly passed
through its dim garden stars,
my brother locked his bedroom door.
Behind it, he practiced magic tricks,
failing over and over again
to make a silver dime disappear.
Touchstone, 2007
