59/90, synesthesia

The green plastic of the hose warms the water sitting in the coils. The sediment– Calcium and Magnesium and earth and radiation– swirl from the hose walls with each flick and swish and pull as it is pulled into position, as it is raked across the mulch and positioned before the flowers.

Light travels faster than sound travels faster than water, and you hear the rush a moment before the sputter of air and then solid stream leave the hose, which is warm in your hand. You're surprised by how cool the water is, like it's been hidden below ground near blind fish. You remember that it is hidden below ground, but not with any fish.

The sediment leaves the hose, mixes with the mulch. The air is filled with the metallic water, the ozone and earthworm smell of sun right after rain, the urine that still saturates the shaved wood. You're in the hot house again, walking along the rows of flower flats– geraniums and violets next to tomatoes and parsley. You're on the gravel walkway between rows at the flower shop– or is it a green house? Or is it a nursery? You don't know, but you remember the first time you got a plant to pot yourself.

You picked the purple petals with the yellow trim; you picked the frail stems. You thought it was dust that day, when you pulled the curtains back and the sunlight brushed the sleepiness from your room. You didn't know what to think when the dust started flying from the flower petals and dying all over the top of your bookshelf like vampires. You closed the curtains again. The bugs kept flying, kept multiplying before your eyes, covering the petals and stems and dirt and leaves until you were afraid they were eating you too.

In years after then, you would try again– an avocado plant, a hostos, a section of your grandma's garden.

The stream of water has formed a moat around the newly planted flowers, set in place for graduation celebrations outside the art museum. Pieces of mulch float like burnt birch canoes. The men gather the hose, shut off the water and get into their truck, move on to the next flower bed across the lawn while you stand in the settling earth worm and ozone scent of things you couldn't grow.