the bog (stilled queer life)

Before we raised it

;

The lot we loitered at

;

Was a swamp. Muddy
dirt patch behind
the Barrow’s theater.

;

We laid some flowers
in formation

;

Red-orange hibiscus
next to yellowed
lantana. Wilted

;

green stems
from discounted
blue-violets.

;

The same week
we planted the garden
it was snuffed out.
Stomped on by maintenance staff

;

destroyed by the force of a work boot.

;

Then it was
just barren ground.

Then it was
just beloved mud puddle

;

dirt and locust thorns
to raise once again.

;

Our friends and lovers
are buried there.

;

Still

;

we till and tend
to them as they soak up
the violence. This will not change.

;

They’ve threatened
us before with hot concrete.
Wet

;

sinking asphalt to control
garden pests. This has not changed

;

Still

;

we begged the seed
to grow
Risk ourselves to
tend it again and again and again

;

And again we told ourselves we’d stay rooted despite this all

;

We had been so damaged and still
believed this.

;

We kept hopeful
as bog keepers

;

always tending to the flowerbed.