The Final Harvest
The doctors found my mother’s cancer first
before the spider mites started sucking
the juices from the stems and leaves
leaving them stippled and bronzed.
She told me she didn’t want to lose her
hair but she didn’t want to die either.
I sprayed the plants with neem oil,
I drove her to and from chemo,
I thought if we could just keep it
from spreading
but then the stink bugs descended
on the garden and my husband started
falling asleep at the dinner table.
It was hard for him to breathe,
then it started raining and
I thought at least now
I don’t have to water the garden.
I found tissues he was spitting into
and told him it was blood
but he swore it was soot
from a chimney he cleaned.
Then came the blight
and the tomatoes, that looked promising,
split from the excess water and heat.
The doctor told him he had cancer too,
inoperable lung cancer.
By the time the hornworms came
I had almost given up,
but there were still zucchini growing
and my daughters loved them.
I tried to hide how they were under attack
for as long as I could.
I put the hornworms in a mason jar.
I thought we could watch them
turn into hummingbird moths.
I brought them inside
to show my husband
but he was asleep
so I put the jar on the nightstand
and my ear just above his chest
and listened
to the high-pitched whistling
in his lungs
as he breathed in and
out.
Second Grade Open House
You wonder if you will get a second chance with love
as your daughter’s teacher introduces herself then
dives into the curriculum. All the other parents partnered
and serious, teetering on seats made for little learners
versus you with your daughter in tow, the only child here
because you have no one else to watch her, just you.
Outside the window, you see the top of monkey bars.
Your daughter is hanging on you and you are silently
placing a finger to your lips and trying to pay attention.
She wants to show you a picture she drew and a story
she wrote. She wants to take you to the music room,
to the art room, to the gymnasium but there is an agenda.
After your husband’s death, you finally understand
that the plans you make are seldom the plans that unfold.
You know telling her this is cruel. Let the world teach her.
Look away when her teacher looks over awkwardly.
She shows everyone the state standards that she follows
religiously. She reminds us about the importance of
routine, of reading, arithmetic, a good night’s sleep,
healthy snacks, exercise, getting outside, of home
work that will start soon and you chuckle envisioning
your daughter, an open bag of orange cornballs spilling
onto the couch and rolling in between the cushions
after 10 pm while she is playing videogames and
singing along off-tune with the blaring pop music.
Her older sister’s dying her hair blue again, her hands
stained, asking where her bookbag is because she
has to start her homework. You write down the plan
that fits perfectly, six lines per stanza. The teacher
is young and has two small children, a husband,
what happened to you couldn’t possibly happen to her.
Rebecca Schumejda is the author of the following full-length books: Falling Forward (sunnyoutside press), Cadillac Men (NYQ Books), Waiting at the Dead End Diner (Bottom Dog Press), Our One-Way Street (NYQ Books) and the following chapbooks: The Tear Duct of the Storm (Green Bean Press) Dream Big, Work Harder (sunnyoutside press), The Map of Our Garden (verve bath press), From Seed to Sin (Bottle of Smoke Press) and is the co-author of Common Wages with Don Winter (Working Stiff Press).
She graduated with a BA in English and Creative Writing from SUNY New Paltz and a MA in Poetics and Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. She teaches at an Alternative High School and Career Technical Center. She is co-editor of the online magazine Trailer Park Quarterly and a regular contributor at Albany Poets. She lives with her family in Upstate New York.