What’s wild and what you’ve planted
with your own two hands:
eggplant, tomato, and squash not yet risen
parsley that reminds me of family each time I pass it—
twelve or twenty of us around my Aunt Trudi’s table
dipping bitter herb in saltwater, thankful again
when you surprise me with Galushka
the dumplings your father taught you to shape.
Sometimes I reach for you and you’re not there—
each hair on your body tossing through a nightmare.
On the phone this morning, my mom tells me
my sister-in-law is pregnant, but shh, don’t tell anyone yet.
Yesterday, I vented to my dad for nearly an hour—
all the stress I feel, the pressure to provide.
Don’t worry, he said. You don’t have a family.
But what do we call this
fresh basil, the wildflower I brought home for you
resting on our windowsill.