upon moving back to michigan i plant a garden
& become re-acquainted with my sister
by Mariama J. Lockington
there are too many insects in the garden
some animal has stolen the leaves off my pea plant
the basil is riddled with mite-sized holes
& the tomato vine has taken over
the fruit hanging low
refusing to blush
all the while my fourteen-year-old sister
stands in a mirror-lined bathroom
bleaching the down of her pubic hair
taking the burn as punishment
she slips into a Lilly Pulitzer dress
worth three months of her allowance
a dress of Florida neons, sweet tea
sweating palm trees
just last week, looking out at the garden
she tells me the white boy she loves thinks she’s special
not like those other “cotton pickers”
she air quotes, glancing at me for approval
i thought maybe if i got my hands dirty here
if i went back to the ground & blessed my skin
with its grubs, earthworms, & yarrow
it would teach me how to seedling again
that it would give me a way to mourn
all these endings, to believe in our survival
to re-learn the smell of blood in the rain
as amniotic fluid, urgent arrival
but every day i stomp outside to see
what has bloomed, ripened
every day another tomato, green as the vine
dropped & rotted in its small carcass
every day another lynched headline
from the TV or the lips of a loved one
how can i teach her she is healing root
ginger, sweet potato, black cumin
all her muscle & gold, hidden
that he will never see her as i do
when even here in the garden
little deaths mock our safety
what are we allowed to grow
with our black girl magic?
i am still trying to untangle this
the weeds have taken over
& they are strong
some animal has stolen the leaves off my pea plant
the basil is riddled with mite-sized holes
& the tomato vine has taken over
the fruit hanging low
refusing to blush
all the while my fourteen-year-old sister
stands in a mirror-lined bathroom
bleaching the down of her pubic hair
taking the burn as punishment
she slips into a Lilly Pulitzer dress
worth three months of her allowance
a dress of Florida neons, sweet tea
sweating palm trees
just last week, looking out at the garden
she tells me the white boy she loves thinks she’s special
not like those other “cotton pickers”
she air quotes, glancing at me for approval
i thought maybe if i got my hands dirty here
if i went back to the ground & blessed my skin
with its grubs, earthworms, & yarrow
it would teach me how to seedling again
that it would give me a way to mourn
all these endings, to believe in our survival
to re-learn the smell of blood in the rain
as amniotic fluid, urgent arrival
but every day i stomp outside to see
what has bloomed, ripened
every day another tomato, green as the vine
dropped & rotted in its small carcass
every day another lynched headline
from the TV or the lips of a loved one
how can i teach her she is healing root
ginger, sweet potato, black cumin
all her muscle & gold, hidden
that he will never see her as i do
when even here in the garden
little deaths mock our safety
what are we allowed to grow
with our black girl magic?
i am still trying to untangle this
the weeds have taken over
& they are strong
MARIAMA J. LOCKINGTON is a writer, nonprofit educator, and transracial adoptee who calls many places home. She is published in a number of journals and magazines including the Washington Square Review, Prelude Magazine, Bodega Magazine, and Buzzfeed News Reader, and her poetry chapbook The Lucky Daughter is out now via Damaged Goods Press (2017). Mariama's middle grade novel-in-verse, roughly titled Makeda and the Georgia Belles, is forthcoming from Farrar, Straus, and Giroux in 2019. Mariama lives in Michigan with her partner and their dapple-haired dachshund, Henry. When she is not writing or teaching, you’ll find Mariama singing karaoke, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or re-reading her favorite book, Sula by Toni Morrison.