Love is a Weed

Our Garden, Chicago

Our Garden, Chicago

Twelve years ago Felipe and I were married in a garden we revived from a syringe strew lot, next to our Humboldt Park apartment in Chicago. I didn’t realize we were building a personal metaphor with that plot.
We have adapted weed nature to survive in México, and sometimes it certainly feels that we have been pulled and burned and carted away. Still we stay and flourish. Tenacious as weeds, our flowers. This week I recite the fitting poems read during our wedding service.

I read To Dorothy at our wedding.

I read To Dorothy at our wedding.

To Dorothy, By Marvin Bell.
Love is a Weed, by Paul Casella.
Happy Anniversary my love.

I Love the Familiar

for Paul

the man on the bike who rubs my back, the cobblestone
he rides on, I see him on the corner, where
the faded mail box gulp my bills

he pedals by my laundromat, my favorite pizza place,
the payphone, its receiver dangling, I lifted to my lips
when I had no phone

to call my husband, who left me
because I had affair

when I missed him

I wrote this poem many years ago. I finished it this week, finally utilizing the work shopping of my friend and mentor Paul Casella, without whom I would never have been brave enough to release my poems to the world. Deep gratitude to you Paul , and sincere thanks to all of you for reading. © 2013 Abby Smith, Writer