Rita Dove


The Secret Garden - Poem by Rita Dove

I was ill, lying on my bed of old papers,
when you came with white rabbits in your arms;
and the doves scattered upwards, flying to mothers,
and the snails sighed under their baggage of stone . . .

Now your tongue grows like celery between us:
Because of our love-cries, cabbage darkens in its nest;
the cauliflower thinks of her pale, plump children
and turns greenish-white in a light like the ocean's.

I was sick, fainting in the smell of teabags,
when you came with tomatoes, a good poetry.
I am being wooed. I am being conquered
by a cliff of limestone that leaves chalk on my breasts.


Comments about The Secret Garden by Rita Dove

  • Rookie - 45 Points Colleen Courtney (5/15/2014 7:17:00 AM)

    Nicely written piece. Different. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, October 21, 2013

Poem Edited: Tuesday, October 22, 2013


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