Grass

That spring, my parents were trying to mend the lawn,
all crabgrass, wild garlic, and dandelion, tangled stalks
that came up on their own. The neighbors had complained,
saying that our lawn made the block seem shabby,
attracted rats. I helped my father choose from a catalog,
containing bluegrass, fescue, rye. He chose Zoysia, hoping
it would, as promised, reduce the need for weeding, but he
never weeded, loving whatever came up, whether from
scattered seeds or slips of root or of unknown origin.
He didn’t know that much about his ancestors, but you
could tell he came from farmers by the way he held each
seedling, tucked it into the ground. I watched the workmen
roll out the new green lawn, like an ancient tapestry, roots
dangling in loose threads below each heavy strip. Still,
what was underneath thrived—those twisted stems,
hardy and resilient—like the past you know and the one
you don’t, neither of which will ever go away.

*

In my memory my mother speaks again

about the loquat tree that grew outside her window
in Capetown, at the very tip of Africa. She wanted me
to spread the seeds of her lost life, to make them grow.
She fed me all the fruits she used to know, the alligator pear
(AKA the avocado). She would breakfast daily on it, and
in season, pomegranates, bright with ruby seeds, bursting
like a hive. She was Persephone, at least in her own mind,
dragged to the underworld by that dark man, my father.

*

Traces

It’s been two decades since I’ve been in my old neighborhood,
once the haunt of Jewish families not quite middle class.
They built a quasi-suburban enclave, with schools and shops
and synagogues, a library, public transportation, even its own
newspaper. When we moved in, the ground was raw, unplanted.
I remember stores opening on Castor Ave: the Gingham House,
where everybody’s mom shmoozed with groups of friends, the delis
and the kosher bakeries, two movie theaters. Gone, the last time
I was there, to empty out my parents’ house and sell it. Was I still
the child netting fireflies in the high grass, riding my bike around
the block? I didn’t recognize any of the people. Where was
Mr. Moskewitz, the blind man, with his guide dog? The kind librarian?
The trolley, shooting sparks as it jolted down the track? Gutted.
In their place, empty storefronts, overflowing garbage cans.

*

Explorer

In 1980, I came to California as a transplant, stunned
by the brightness, spiky palm trees, brown hills.
It surprised me that everything came from somewhere else,
like me, exotic backdrop to some movie scene I could not
identify. Busloads of gawking tourists, squawking parrots,
escapees, in motley flocks, picking dark fruits from the
olive trees, bright lemons. So much to see—the blue of sky
and sea. White line of beach, offering an opportunity to fill
each space with words, to take root in the arid soil and grow,
set seed among orange groves, twisted eucalyptus, The desert,
which reminded me of an abandoned parking lot, with its
tumbleweed and Joshua trees, starved moon. But California
had another face, a place of redwood and sequoias. Standing
in their damp half-light, I became a child again, distracted
by the distant sky’s bright mirror, the sun’s familiar face.
Now I’ve settled in, my explorations mostly limited to plate
and page, I’m still trying new ideas, cuisines, sniffing spices
at the Farmer’s market, taking on a shape I didn’t have before.

*

Robbi Nester is the author of four books of poetry and editor of three anthologies. She is a retired college educator and elected member of the Academy of American Poets. Her website is at RobbiNester.net