On The Fast of Tamuz When the Walls Began to Fall

 my walls breached, I choose

to not eat from my garden of despair

where long ago perennial vines were dug in, 

seeds sowed by wounded ancestors and my own

tangled invasives.  Today

 

I fast noticing the enticements of old hurts

and angers, the dirtied plates where mockers,

minimizers feasted at my table, emptied

my refrigerator and I the compulsive hostess 

offered more.  Today I remember, I mourn

 

letting what arises sit beside me,

wander off.  I am drunk on quiet and emptiness, 

forgetting, remembering how to water the fruit trees.  Purple 

beans have unfolded from dreams once held in my palms.  Ripened 

blueberries I planted long ago as a young hopeful mother

 

feed the backyard yearnings of birds, blue

abundance offered to this one woman

her sun setting, sitting tender

on the stalk of this day of burning memory

and waiting hunger.