Stay
I gather rosemary from my mother’s garden.
I move aside branches of cold tomato vines
and wilted basil leaves from last summer.
Rosemary persists in the Virginia fall and I
relish its abundance, hang branches above my bed to dry.
I tie bundles for me and a friend for protection.
My mom asks why I cut the branches, why not just take
the leaves? It’s not the same, I say. I don’t tell her I need the stability.
Besides, rosemary looks best bundled—I am not
above aesthetics. I hoard more rosemary. I make
syrup and gift it alongside the dried herb with a few pink-
and-white swirled candies, momentos from that Felix Gonzalez-Torres exhibit.
I cherish my friends, so I try and give pieces of the art away
instead of myself because I am not dead yet. Trying
my best to keep a promise.
