Between Love and a Hard Place

Between Love and a Hard Place


Just days after he moved his
young bride into the house, he went
on a rampage, chopping, digging,


eradicating anything that flowered,
all the perennials planted years ago
by his grandmother:


peonies and poppies, hollyhocks and
grape hyacinths, an entire fence row
of heirloom tea roses, even a small grove


of mature pie-cherry trees, all because his new
wife hated bees. He hacked out every blooming
plant, save the grass and a prize snowball bush


in the front, spared only by his mother,
planted stock-steady between the bush
and the hedge clippers, bearing folded arms


and a death stare. That stand off, the beginning
of the end. Some months later, as she
loads her things into her Daddy’s pickup,


he sweats and scowls out over the sun-scorched
lawn, praying for rain, longing
for the shade of his grandmother’s trees.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *