Star Jasmine
(In memory of my mother-in-law, Helen, 1919-2010)
It doesn’t belong in Wisconsin.
And yet, improbably, here it is in my study,
sending out shoots that want to be vines
and new leaves, green as tiny arrows, while outside
last night’s snowstorm glitters, wind shearing in from the north.
I bought it last spring because it smelled like California,
where it grows as groundcover, the tangled vines feral
as my heart was there, opening at night to release
their sweet fragrance. And because it made me think
of you and patches of jasmine we’d pass while walking the island,
their scent layered through the Pacific air like a white bed
where one wants to fall down and rest a long time, small flowers bobbing
like miniature lanterns, dusk rolling up the sky’s blue map.
The day I learned you were dying, I scoured the country
for jasmine to send, thinking the scent might soothe you,
trapped inside your body on the other side of the map.
But it was winter and jasmine is tender;
there wasn’t a plant to be had. None but my own,
inside, too, dropping more leaves each day,
folding in around itself as you’d once told me
your own mother did while dying.
I sent hyacinths instead. And yet, here is jasmine,
not just revived but thriving, its chartreuse tendrils stretching
toward snow-light in this sunny room. Where I am and you
are not, two weeks dead this morning, the scent
of jasmine like something I once dreamed—carnal,
intangible, wild—starlight fallen into deep water
and drowning, the plant beside me reaching for spring.
Alison Townsend has authored a memoir, The Green Hour: A Natural History of Home (shortlisted for the PEN Essay Award), and two books of poetry, Persephone in America and The Blue Dress. Read more.