Susan Mason Scott

 

 

Trouble the Dandelions

A garden of graves, though to some inconvenient weeds, in John Paul Park

dandelions I trouble: grandparents, pioneers, and children phantom

reprimand—their dark eyes never close. Cavities of no

memory in stone of soft lime, taproots can’t carry marrow,

the mossy sentiment from epitaphs plucked like pesky relics,

the gravestones sigh in a cellar nearby.

In this place of bodies buried underfoot, where no worms rise

I root for stems, seeds, sepals, and feathers for the nameless

an account, for their bones and dandelion ghosts I float

epithets, exhale parachutes.

All the while cornered inside my home

a bronze jar, remains, a dilemma.

My ghost—my child—wears a wool hat to keep warm.

Funny, I know, but how to let go, tell the story without stone

of my weed cut from stem before full flush.

For his skin and tissue like soft moments,

his bone memory, a splinter in my hand,

for his garden of ash, I wish for a squall—

a dandelion to trouble.