Cultivate: a love poem

Tommie Christopher Brown is the girl with a full boy name. Currently living in a small town in Southern California, Tommie is a writer whose style spreads from poetic to academic, but finds home somewhere marrying the two. She has a BA in English studies with a focus in Philosophy and has recently written and worked for VICELAND, WORD Agency, and Mitu. Read more of her work here.

Cul·ti·vate

You told me that a long time ago bees burrowed under a

Peach tree in the backyard of the home you grew up in.

In that moment I knew I was not the only 

Dangerous thing that found shelter in your sweetness.

But when it comes to you, I am all honey and no sting.

Not a bruise in sight, did you pick me, or did I fall into you?

Clench your fists around me, watch me trickle into sugar puddles.

Cup your hands like pitchers, Peach tea if you can catch me. 

I ask the leaves rustling in the wind to tell me secrets

Of who you were before I knew you.

But the fresh air carrying their giggles reminds me

That honeyed boy, I always knew you.

I met you in the hope of every last frost of the season.

You told me once that you grew strawberries upside down,

And wondered why you didn’t notice my red hair

And know that love, this is right side up.

My whole life has been roots and cherry picking,

Digging myself up before I was ripe.

But the dirt on your hands feels like a promise

That someone taught you how to let things grow.

Tell me, how did you find me?

I’ve been milling through the thickets, untangling these vines. 

Did you follow the blackberry trail I left behind

to find my way back home? 

Or have I been following my blackberry trail and found my way home?

Will you come, if I invite you to my garden?

Some things are half dead, half grown, or never sprouted.

The daisies are moody and the basil asked for time.

Because on this ground we understand the war of blooming. 

But the grass stains on your blue jeans

Tells me that possibly you know a thing or two

About what it takes to fight for the living. 

And maybe this time, old friend,

I don’t have to explain how tears create sugar.