Backyards

by Peggy de Broux

An oasis of green St. Augustine grass,
gnarled, spikey mesquite tree
and weathered swing:
grey seat, ragged rope.

My daughter thrills to it,
legs plunge up to the sky;
hands cling to the rope,
thrilling to each swing.

Pecan trees float higher than mesquite,
arid, stingy leaves. My dad sneaks
water to them at night.
There's the tee of clothesline

where recent diapers dried,
crinkly and soft; blouses so smooth
they need no ironing, skivvies
blanched white in mid-summer sun.

I fill the clothesline, my daughter
crawls on the grass, early, before
the swing was built, before
her dad disappears.

We all gather the pecans, daddy
knocking them off the trees
for mother and me to shell,
green pecans turning fingers black.

Verbena faces perk up flower beds
which eat at the sidewalk.
White morning glories climb up
string, cooling windows.

Mother planted verbenas, those
hardy flowers. They had to be:
she forgot to water, or, the
water bill too high, she couldn't.

Iron fencing peeks out of ivy,
guarding the alley, giving space
to the fierce dog who
barks at neighbors, strangers alike.

We are safe, sweating in the heat,
waiting for nightfall, the way we used to
in Florida, sitting on a back porch,
cheap wine in hand, friends gathering on the grass.