The end of May gave
way to the first heat
wave of the season
and Becca and I
strolled the narrow
path past the bridge
where a stroller sat
abandoned on the
banks of the Eramosa
River. The underbrush
was a crowd of green
and the path lay
between the water
where my doggy
splashed and the
chain-link fence
which separated
nature from industry.
Along the trail grew
garlic mustard plants--
for pesto, she said. And
dandelions--to be put
in salads, pickled
into capers, or
fermented to wine.
If you say so,
I reply, because
in my experience
that yellow weed is
only good once it's
gone to seed and I
can blow my wishes
out onto the wind. I
have to admit I still
think of him. As Becca
explains how her
interest in Dan has
waned, her words
press on my bruised
heart. I start to
imagine those words
tumbling out of his
mouth. I have to
remind myself it's
ended and I can no
longer be suspended
in a lonely fantasy. For
he was always the seed
ready to ride on the wind
and I am what's left of
the severed stem rooted
into the soil.
Ian-Jyzel Umali Gallardo (she/her) is a first generation Filipinx-Canadian. She is twenty-nine years old and currently resides with her dog in Guelph, Ontario, the traditional territory of the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation of the Anishnaabek Peoples. This poem, titled "Dandelions," is an elegy to a passionate though tumultuous relationship, as well as a brief introduction to urban foraging.
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