Planting Camellias as an Act of Resistance
Jeannine Hall Gailey
Bright March morning after snow.
News headlines about rising sea lines,
starving orcas, droughts. Early spring
brings bomb cyclones. Everyone
at the top’s a criminal. Cesium in the
sunflowers, strontium-90 in the dust.
This morning I dig in the dirt and plant
flowers, unnecessary, flagrant: a pink
camellia, jonquils, primroses. The blue jays
a tinnitus in the air, the little juncos jittering.
The resistance a wall of flowers rising
against the poison, against the screaming,
the satellites, wars and newsrooms. I don’t like
feeling helpless, silent in the face
of so much terror, so today I make plum jam.
The doctors say my nerves are getting thinner.
No wonder, shrinking against the agitation, atoms
vibrating together with the supermoon.
My brain has blank spaces now,
illumined by inflammation.
They say we will bring change, the moon
and me. Listen: every breath in this air
is an amplification, every petal a protest.