Up from the depths
of the raised bed of earth
the stalks lift thin banners,
green in the wind.
The roots clasp the soil,
with the reluctance of lovers
letting go. But the earth
breaks open, warm as biscuits,
and the pale bulbs, crusted
with earth crumbs, enter
for the first time
air. Braided, on green pigtails
lashed to the chickenwire gate
of the garden, each bulb
dries to a rustle
weeks later, in my palm—
husky skins fine as rice paper,
veined like the leaf of a lily,
faintly varnished with gold.
Brittle papers that flake
when a thumb pries into
the cluster of cloves, prying
in and in, pinching the flesh
of a clove up under a nail—
and the odor! redolent,
a pungency in which pot roasts
and thick stews gather,
an aroma for eggplants and sesame
melding in a rich mystic kiss,
pure baba ganoush.
Let the feckless take it
odorless in capsules—
I simmer it in wine and tomatoes,
blend it with butter and basil,
lash the curved cloves
to a necklace I wear on my skin,
cold wolf-moon nights in the woods.
I stuff pillows with the skins,
rub the salad bowl of the lover’s
body nightly with garlic,
breathe it out with the love cry,
let it rise, a nebula
into starry night skies …
for what if Dante were wrong
about paradise, the choirs
in their circular rows—what if
the celestial rose weren’t petals
at all, but a commoner light,
a corona of cloves in their thin
garlic gowns, twisting up
into wicks that long to be lit,
and they are lit, flaming up
in the glory of God—
the God of the old myths
who leans over the fence
of the firmament, beyond pale
buds of new stars, leaning
our way, toward our own
common sod, sighing into it,
raising it, his breath
faintly garlic.