Bio Note: We’re snowed in and it’s ice slick outside. Home’s a cozy place to be with candles and the fireplace lit.
—After On Gardens by Rick Barot I read about the garden, the friars who romped in the village plucking white flowers and feel bad for the pillaged girls. They were plucked like Linda, an Amish girl nearby, kidnapped, raped and killed. Young, unmarried, innocent, Linda was used for sex, discarded in a tarp underground to rot after being finished her off. Her family and community manned a phone booth for months, waiting for the girl’s call. Colonial settlers ravaged American Indians and our land the same way the friars pollinated white flowers. I would shape change each girl into a huntress, a black hawk with sharp talons and a dagger beak. Or form them into inviolate rocks in a garden cushioned by softest moss. Or pour them out as white sand in a temple garden, a raked maze of gentle curves and straight lines to nibble light and cast shadows. Oh happy girl. When she blooms black. When she blooms rock. When she blooms sand. When we protect her.
©2022 Ingrid Bruck
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