Oak Ridge 1943

Some evenings when Daddy’s working late
we sit in the vegetable garden, admire

the border of zinnias, dahlias, blue hydrangeas
darkening in alkaline earth Mama dug, mixing red clay

with peat. I never feel closer than when we inhale
the sweet scent of Mama’s grief, her light touch

of homesickness for her own mother and father.
When she says it’s different, I know she means

my own lumpy grief, means you have me.
We watch the squash and lettuce fade

and wait for the night blooming cereus,
its petals like elegant white gloved fingers

unfurling next to the shadowy vegetables,
petals frothy in the dark, pretty enough to share.