BACKYARD OR THE BARDO

A poem in three parts

Eden Adjacent by Adeline Lyons

i.

If all I ever was sat out in a backyard

listening between sounds for the pitch

of god, would someone open the garden

gate and greet me? I can wait. I’ll pitch

a tent in the garden. Outside will be

roses and the buzz of honeybees. Inside

will be me. But that’s for sleeping.

On waking every minute is alive.

I strain to stay sacred in the garden.

I feign a blessing. Bardo won.

O tell me when he’ll come!

	I tend my bait. Leafy greens

and rosebuds won’t do. I’ll have to 

make something new. A new worm.

A different sort of yarn, spun from locust

wings, maybe. Temptress. I swing my net

and sing my hymns. I’ll fake in the garden.

I’ll rake up remaining soils and plant

perennials. I’ll let them grow and watch

between their growing for god.

	Unwon. The bardo creeps. I could

weep at losing but maintain a taciturn

face. The sidewalk-goers embrace.

They peer into the lives I’ve lived

and ask me to partake. Some friends

are made. Lovers saved. I thought

I saw him and I waved. O future

undone. Not everyman’s conscience

is vile and depraved. He was saved.

	There’s still room for leaving

but I wait. I plant a stake in the garden.

I am alone except for those who think me

home. Unmade in the garden. Who’s whole

other than the him who’s late? The crops

keep time and I’ll have to wait.

ii.

Once I read thou mayest and thought

I have a chance here to do something good.

	The robin came in March.

The grandfather lived in the Midwest,

rural and content. He was bent on giving

other’s what they need. He kept nature

wild. The robin spent time on his land.

	I came too and didn’t understand.

The whole world’s weeping, I said.

The grandfather laughed and did simple

good deeds. When everything turned green

the robin kept a bit of red going.

	I didn’t realize I was growing

til grandfather got old. I heard what he told.

There’s a place for every man but most

don’t even know how to stand.

In summer I saw the robin land

somewhere cooler. The grandfather lived

his last days where he’ll remain:

between laughter and refrain. I refrained

from leaving, thinking: I’ll tend

his land and wait til March

when robin or not, I’ll depart.

iii.

There’s an open gate.

Perhaps the late one

left it open. I freeze.

Dare I walk through?

Usually I hack at growth

to carve a path, but this

is easy, ready-made.

Dare I ask the way?

No one home. Okay.

I could wait another

day. No one’s cheering

me. No one’s clearing

me. Only me and some

other higher elsewhere.

Dare I share this life

with the living? Being born

means little and littler still

to age. But simply walking

through an open gate:

there’s when time abates.