[Brazil.
A friend of the writer is speaking.]Half squatter, half tenant (no rent)—a sort of inheritance; white,in your thirties now, and supposedto supply me with vegetables,but you don't; or you won't; or you can'tget the idea through your brain—the world's worst gardener since Cain.
Titled above me, your gardensravish my eyes.
You edgethe beds of silver cabbageswith red carnations, and lettucesmix with alyssum.
And thenumbrella ants arrive,or it rains for a solid weekand the whole thing's ruined againand I buy you more pounds of seeds,imported, guaranteed,and eventually you bring mea mystic thee-legged carrot,or a pumpkin "bigger than the baby."I watch you through the rain,trotting, light, on bare feet,up the steep paths you have made—or your father and grandfather made—all over my property,with your head and back insidea sodden burlap bag,and feel I can't endure itanother minute; then,indoors, beside the stove,keep on reading a book.
You steal my telephone wires,or someone does.
You starveyour horse and yourselfand your dogs and family.among endless variety,you eat boiled cabbage stalks.
And once I yelled at youso loud to hurry upand fetch me those potatoesyour holey hat flew off,you jumped out of your clogs,leaving three objects arranged in a triangle at my feet,as if you'd been a gardenerin a fairy tale all this timeand at the word "potatoes"had vanished to take up your workof fairy prince somewhere.
The strangest things happen to you.
Your cows eats a "poison grass"and drops dead on the spot.
Nobody else's does.
And then your father dies,a superior old manwith a black plush hat, and a moustachelike a white spread-eagled sea gull.
The family gathers, but you,no, you "don't think he's dead!
I look at him.
He's cold.
They're burying him today.
But you know,
I don't think he's dead."I give you money for the funeraland you go and hire a busfor the delighted mourners,so I have to hand over some moreand then have to hear you tell meyou pray for me every night!
And then you come again,sniffing and shivering,hat in hand, with that wistfulface, like a child's fistfulof bluets or white violets,improvident as the dawn,and once more I providefor a shot of penicillindown at the pharmacy, or one more bottle
Electrical Baby Syrup.
Or, briskly, you come to settlewhat we call our "accounts,"with two old copybooks,one with flowers on the cover,the other with a camel.immediate confusion.
You've left out decimal points.
Your columns stagger,honeycombed with zeros.
You whisper conspiratorially;the numbers mount to millions.
Account books?
They are Dream the kitchen we dream togetherhow the meek shall inherit the earth—or several acres of mine.
With blue sugar bags on their heads,carrying your lunch,your children scuttle by melike little moles aboveground,or even crouch behind bushesas if I were out to shoot them!—Impossible to make friends,though each will grab at oncefor an orange or a piece of candy.
Twined in wisps of fog,
I see you all up therealong with Formoso, the donkey,who brays like a pump gone dry,then suddenly stops.—All just standing, staringoff into fog and space.
Or coming down at night,in silence, except for hoofs,in dim moonlight, the horseor Formoso stumbling after.
Between us float a fewbig, soft, pale-blue,sluggish fireflies,the jellyfish of the air…Patch upon patch upon patch,your wife keeps all of you covered.
She has gone over and over(forearmed is forewarned)your pair of bright-blue pantswith white thread, and these daysyour limbs are draped in blueprints.
You paint—heaven knows why—the outside of the crownand brim of your straw hat.
Perhaps to reflect the sun?
Or perhaps when you were small,your mother said, "Manuelzinho,one thing; be sure you alwayspaint your straw hat."One was gold for a while,but the gold wore off, like plate.
One was bright green.
Unkindly,
I called you Klorophyll Kid.
My visitors thought it was funny.
I apologize here and now.
You helpless, foolish man,
I love you all I can,
I think.
Or I do?
I take off my hat, unpaintedand figurative, to you.
Again I promise to try.
