by Elizabeth Galoozis
now we have
these trees.
not planted by us
but in our care.
well…
your care.
you water them assiduously;
I just sit
on the back patio
with a glass of rum at dusk
under the crescent moon
and watch
with love.
I watch the green fruit form,
its skin distend
and turn yellow
and orange,
swell and cradle its seeds.
so that birds eat them
and shit them out somewhere
so that there can be more trees,
more fruit,
more trees.
more fruit
for me to pluck
and squeeze into my rum
as I sit under the half-moon
and gaze up
through the leaves.
the bugs that don’t bite me
or stick their heads
in the trees’ blossoms
rub their legs together
and make
the only sound around.
the word deserve means
nothing around here.
the bees and seeds
don’t know their labor
ends in a glass of rum,
in the stomach
of an animal
whose shit can’t even help them
continue the line.
we don’t deserve it.
but we don’t not.
the fruit won’t be here forever.
Elizabeth Galoozis’s poems have appeared in Air/Light, Sundog Lit, RHINO Poetry, Call Me [Brackets], Sinister Wisdom, and other publications. She serves as a reader for The Maine Review and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She works as a librarian and lives in southern California.
Twitter: @thisamericanliz
Instagram: @thisamericanliz