Tears stream from my cherished

teen—stretched out on a flowered

couch—she wants no words or touch—

a boyfriend loss. I tip-toe out.

After early warmth, cold droplets

softly bend our daffodil fronds—hollow

stems can’t keep high our garden’s

sunshine cups. Topple. Grounded.

Mollusks ooze out, forging

slimy trails. Their thin tongues

dressed with savage teeth

rip the trumpeters of spring.

Not so hard to toss the knaves,

tie pliant stems aloft to stakes—fragile

crowns of gold impregnable. Oh, for such

expertise with tender blooms of home.

ω

My mom played only with a ball as a child,

knew only her sharecropping mother.

The whole family bent to pluck Oklahoma cotton.

Married, turned middle class, she yet

kept care for the laborer, the forgotten

At thirty-some, my parents-to-be moved West,

chose the Golden State—my place of birth,

school and play. Dad’s family migrated too,

and Grandpa danced Ozark jigs for us grandkids, yet

I’m accused of politics that betray my long-gone kin

and it’s Bavaria they migrated from.

β

Years on I jet to Munich intent on my heritage.

In Alpen foothills, windowsills boast geraniums in

pristine gardens—I visit a castle and read of

Bavarian ancestors —supporters of Crown Prince Rupert.

He, like Hitler, of southern Germany, but

Rupert and his homeland refused what Hitler offered—

making necessary the prince’s flight.

These days kin of mine embrace disinformation—

you shame our family name—my brother’s accusation—

from my eyes a saline shower. A pink geranium from

our mother blooms with pride in me

though Bavaria birthed both Hitler and Prince Rupert—

the latter proves ancestor to my name.