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2409 Jefferson Street
Port Townsend, WA
360-379-1086

Donald Kentop 

The Hedge

It would be wiser, sweetheart, if we made

our gardens independently of one

another. We could share the spades and rakes

and lend the other one support. I do

love roses, but they need their light and space.

I know you love the apple tree whose shade

cools your lilies-of-the-valley, callas,

and astilbes. Besides, the formal more

Italian look will never complement

that lovely, scattered, country garden feel

you favor so. May I suggest we plant

a row of laurel or a boxwood that

defines our spaces separately with room

to grow conjointly? Dear, it’s not like we

would have to slip each other notes or pass

the pastries and the teacups through the hedge.

Uncle Bert, 1902–1920

Because they raised him unafraid to lend

a hand and work for fun, not only pay;

and jumping at the chance to help a friend

crew a boat overnight; and then next day

after standing watch he went below

to nap, his rosy lips were turned to blue

because some molecules had lost an O

and made CO instead of CO₂.

Because a rag came loose around a pipe

that leaked—he’s still asleep. His folks were told

and grieved in private. Being not the type

to sue, they told us too, when we were old

enough, how Bert had died, and what a shame

we never got to call him by that name.

Untitled

When Bertram went below for a nap

did he press his cheek against the hull

to feel the salty boards absorb the slap

of wavelets? Did he allow the thuds to lull

his brain, so when the fumes escaped to creep

into his bunk and he began to slide,

it felt like such an ordinary sleep

that Bertram didn’t even know he died?

Who knows? If eons may be just a flash

in time, will he emerge eye-to-eye

with God, or will he wake up to the splash

of whitecaps on the bow and hear the cry

of gulls, and startled sit up with a jerk

and scramble topside in the sun to work?