sonnet during drought by Alicia Salvadeo

the Tibetan landlady and i ought
to concede our brown fingers. she can’t grow
tomato plants, hydrangea; i, no
hope for pothos, Pittsburgh ivy, aloe;
basil leaves, see-through. her son babbles all
summer in alphabets; barely does it
rain. i recall figs and vegetables always grew in
my grandfather’s backyard; and berries sprawled
toward roses, apples in my father’s
own. i pass a house on Melwood, my way
to and from my lover’s door, and there is
a garden, erupting like the Third Day;
inside, two old men awake together.
they get up from bed to prune.

Alicia Salvadeo is about to start her final year towards her B.A. in Creative Writing and History at the University of Pittsburgh. Her poetry has appeared in Collision Literary Magazine, of which she is currently Editor-in-Chief, as well as Three Rivers Review and Weave Magazine.