Gardener

He shows you how to smudge
the black fly from the bean flowers,
points out the ant making off down the stem.
He turns up leaves to find a little beetle
shaped like a skin cell. Tortoiseshell.
You both sit in the swing seat and he talks
of his father who had men into his bed
but beat him for the same. His son, induced
and injured. One Egyptian doctor told the truth,
this makes him cry. You lay your hand
along his shoulder while he wipes the tears.
You love him. He's given you coffee
his own bread toasted with homemade jam.
We are lucky, lucky to know each other, you know.
There are three fennel left to harvest,
the cabbages combed for cabbagewhite.
He's like a boy among his vegetable beds,
taking them so seriously, taking such joy.