Outside, in my grandmother’s garden,
the children play—my cousins.
Blessed angels. Mischievous devils.
They run under the oleander tree.
Its pink, poisonous flowers shroud
the courtyard. They laugh
among the red geraniums,
the elephant bush, the baby sun-rose,
the begonias, the crown of thorns,
the roses, and the hibiscus, growing
in pale blue plastic buckets.
Tender stems tremble in the wind,
soft petals drift down onto the concrete,
and arguments spill out
from inside the kitchen.

So I turn up the radio. The children
dip their fingers into the rain barrels
as I collect the empty beer bottles
scattered across the ground,
left there by our uncles the night before.
Bruno wanders into the wooden shed
and finds our grandfather’s machete.
He confuses it for a sword
and swings it at Regina. I spin around,
snatch it from his hand, when suddenly,
the garden speaks to me
in that primal, primordial language
of wind and water, of pollen and dust.
I don’t understand her. All I know is this:
she can’t protect them much longer.
I can’t protect them much longer.

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Maria Vargas is a blossoming girl-poet from the Coachella Valley, who seldom paints, often writes, and constantly obsesses. Enchanted by the natural world and fascinated by human society, she finds a few hours a day to write. You can follow her on Instagram at @mariavargasconstantino2005, though she does not post anything.