Poetry: “What My Grandmother Nestles in the Earth” by Courtney DuChene
Courtney DuChene’s poem, “What My Grandmother Nestles in the Earth,” evokes a tension between the bursts of color that she evokes in the poem using floral imagery, and the fragility of human bodies and minds, focusing in particular on memory. As she walks us through this garden, full of all kinds of flowers and plants, the thread of forgetting recurs in all kinds of ways, family members weaving in and out, along with doctors and other characters. DuChene’s focus is unwavering even as her subject becomes more unsure of herself. The uncertainty of the subject matter tenses with the seasonal aspect of the flowers. We instinctively know as readers that it’s all temporary, and this is DuChene’s trick. When we are gone, when the flowers are gone, the earth itself will still be here.
What My Grandmother Nestles in the Earth
Today in my garden there are foxgloves,
purple skirts swaying like swing dancers
in the breeze. Green buds swirl with promise.
Did the McKaren girl want baby’s
breath or freesia with the roses
in her bouquet? I can’t remember
if I watered the star-gazer lilies—millions
of black eyes stare up at me from pink
cheeks. More days than not I run
through the peonies of my mind, rummaging
for a word, a name. I can still locate
the spot in the yard where Roy and I
buried our miscarried baby though
we didn’t give him a name or mark
his grave with a cross. Was that ’61? ’62?
My son-in-law installs an automatic
sprinkler system. Now, you’ll never forget.
Poppies and carnations. Marigolds and zinnias.
I tell my doctor, I used to write limericks. Recite
a few for him. How can this happen to someone
who used to write limericks? He says, Memory
isn’t a sieve, but a cup that overflows.
I pull a clump of weeds from the earth, shake
white capillaries free of dirt.
purple skirts swaying like swing dancers
in the breeze. Green buds swirl with promise.
Did the McKaren girl want baby’s
breath or freesia with the roses
in her bouquet? I can’t remember
if I watered the star-gazer lilies—millions
of black eyes stare up at me from pink
cheeks. More days than not I run
through the peonies of my mind, rummaging
for a word, a name. I can still locate
the spot in the yard where Roy and I
buried our miscarried baby though
we didn’t give him a name or mark
his grave with a cross. Was that ’61? ’62?
My son-in-law installs an automatic
sprinkler system. Now, you’ll never forget.
Poppies and carnations. Marigolds and zinnias.
I tell my doctor, I used to write limericks. Recite
a few for him. How can this happen to someone
who used to write limericks? He says, Memory
isn’t a sieve, but a cup that overflows.
I pull a clump of weeds from the earth, shake
white capillaries free of dirt.
Courtney DuChene
Courtney DuChene is a poet, journalist, and essayist based in Philadelphia, PA. She holds an MFA from the Helen Zell Writers program at the University of Michigan. Her work has been recognized and supported by the Hopwood Awards, the Vermont Studio Center, Bread Loaf Environmental Writers' Conference, and the Napa Valley Writers' Conference. Her poems, essays and interviews can be found or are forthcoming in the New England Review, Philadelphia Stories, Glass Mountain, The Michigan Quarterly Review, The Millions and The White Review, where she was shortlisted for the 2023 poet's prize. She was long-listed for the 2023 Rising Poet Prize from Palette Poetry.
