H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
CARMEN BUGAN
Oblivion
In last night’s dream
gladioli grew wild around
the house, queens-of-the-night crashed through walls,
and the remains of the windowsills were overtaken
by tall white lilies and blue irises.
The roses we grew for
preserves strangled the door.
I was sitting next to the
poplar grown through the roof
when I saw a man hanging smoked fish under the eaves.
My grandparents were
having a meal of bread, onion and water;
they were talking about bringing the corn to the mill
and threshing the beanstalks in the yard.
From
the beans, the smell of summer.
And these plants are hiding the story.
I saw the sticks we made
out of oak branches;
I remembered how we sat
in a circle,
the dust from the stalks as we beat them—
something like the sound of galloping horses.
They carried on with the
meal. Sifted wheat.
I saw them walk right
past me. They loaded the cart.
And I thought I heard my
name in the throat of a gladiola.
[Originally
published in NHS 2000, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs00/bugan.html.]