by Helen Vitoria
On uneven ground, my father and I are erecting a rusted garden arbor,
he found a way to get it into the garden, drove it around for over an hour, maybe more.
Removed it from an old barn on my uncle’s farm, or the man who says he’s an uncle.
I had sat on the porch with my uncle, he told me about the Greek water nymph
who weighs as much as a dew drop, she can steal your soul right out of your body,
arrives in dreams, or nightmares, always after a storm, usually before the lightning.
My father wishes to sow seeds at the foot of the arbor, let the vines
pull it towards the ground, perform a natural anchoring task. We resort to using concrete.
We dig deep, pour cement, bury rusted arbor legs. This, before the breakdown.
HELEN VITORIA lives and writes in Effort, PA. Her work appears and is forthcoming in: The Dirty Napkin, PANK, wicked alice, The Cartier Street Review, The Scrambler, Tiger's Eye Poetry Journal and others. She is currently working on her first full length collection: Corn Exchange.