a year in my mother’s garden, as the forager

first quarter:
there’s a poorly pruned fig tree growing off the side of our driveway.
last year the tree-trimmers came knocking one too many times, and we trusted them
too much. I worried
the fig wouldn’t make it
but it retaliated, soaring to surpass original height
all in water shoots, as though having decided
we don’t deserve the fruit anymore
they’re for the skies this year. but once
ripe, I steal them
from the mouths of silvereyes
absconding home
the clutch dripping gluey milk-blood
pressed to my chest
our geode-hearted harvest.

second quarter:
the wind makes everything flinch and clatter
I’m eyeing the oak leaves about to fall on me—
(I’m supine)
and the damp is trying
wriggling in through my shoulder blades
(my mother warns me of arthritis)
then from somewhere beyond my head
a soft anonymous thud
two weeks later
when I pick up a pomegranate, heart-soft,
from the overgrown tussock beneath its tree
it’s still full of red teeth.

third quarter:
while waiting for the kettle in the morning it’s better to space out
outside, beneath the kitchen window
pick yourself a snack, a
mandarin. the singular noun
is my mother tongue, but now only watery at best—
the mandarin on my tongue
hot sweet and puckeringly so, our variety’s
seedless, though occasionally you get one, veined
prematurely pale, celestially
precocial. I dream of its future
the companion on long train trips
the orange bauble on the windowsill
the comforting round thing in coat pockets
for later. I pop the peel
open at the stem
(is this what it sounded like when God created light?)
and just because it looks pretty, pinch it in the sun
it eases off cleanly without crumbling
and I gasp like I am holding Pangaea.

last quarter:
between the laundry I’ve just hung up
our climbing roses
flower during the last school term: that season
of back-to-back birthdays, bring-a-plates, thanking my high school teachers.
mum’s been overseas two months
she’s with her own mother, her motherland, leaving me
standing where our lawn has spilled thick calloused runners over the tiles
the roses blooming quietly through last year’s hips
(mum says cutting back after the wilt bolsters the next bloom)
last night after salting the eye fillet, I delighted in stepping outside
briefly for rosemary
nasturtium for garnish
only to find the African daisies smothering all over
the once-colony of nasturtium reduced to brittle strings by endless afternoons
only I am left
a garden
green gloves
secateurs
pan and brush
away with the guilt!
I carry everything in a wicker basket
and begin pulling
(not Jerusalem artichokes, potatoes, or wild chives)
my weight,
starting with the weeds

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Judy Zhang is wordsmithing, wielding a camera, and studying in Tāmaki Makaurau.