Monday, April 12, 2010

His Wife -- Poem by Andrew Hudgins

My wife is not afraid of dirt.
She spends each morning gardening,
stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,
removing insects from her plants
and pinching them until they burst.
She won't grow marigolds or hollyhocks,
just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas –
things we can eat. And while she sweats
I'm working on my poetry and flute.
Then growing tired of all that art,
I've strolled out to the garden plot
and seen her pull a tomato from the vine
and bite into the unwashed fruit
like a soft, hot apple in her hand.
The juice streams down her dirty chin
and tiny seeds stick to her lips.
Her eye is clear, her body full of light,
and when, at night, I hold her close,
she smells of mint and lemon balm.


Bangchik and Kakdah said...

A nice poem, scrutinizing the details of gardening and gardener.

I prefer to think Kakdah, my wife smells like roses, and I, the dirty gardener probably smell as hot as chili.

Putrajaya, Malaysia

Bethany said...

I love the simple language of this poem and find it very earthy and a bout of wishful thinking I will imagine my husband came up with this poem instead of his usual refrain when I return from the garden: "you didn't track in any chicken poop did you?"

Lynn said...

That's the life! Too bad my hands smell of minced garlic.

Ilona said...

What a wonderful poem. I really enjoyed that.