“It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.”

William Garretson was the gardener of 10050 Cielo Drive, in Los Angeles, a summer house rented by Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate. He lived in the guest house on the property. On August 9th, 1969, members of the Manson family visited the residence and brutally murdered all the inhabitants, as well as Garretson’s friend Steve Parent. Garretson claims he had no knowledge of the murders that night. He is the only survivor of the Tate Murders.

your screams sounded
like fiberglass breaking
an almost impossible noise
like a hemorrhage at midnight
i was walking through the garden
and i swear
i heard the neat click
when he severed the phone line
if only i had known

i have thought up one hundred scenarios
in which i saved your life
but there is only one
when i don't
and every night i try to justify this reality
because i could have sworn
the sound of their boots
on the steel fence
was the telephone
ringing

when they saw the headlights
swerve over the lawn
steve was as good as dead
shattered like a lightbulb
under pressure
four shots pressed into his forehead
a candid bullet kissed him faceless
his absence was
a tell tale piquancy of slaughter
i lay in bed that night
and turned my face to the wall
when i heard the screams

tell me i reek coward
say the raw red skin of my knuckles
shaved away from the foundation of my raised veins
as i sat through another police interrogation
are nothing compared to the red poppy
that blossomed in the center of his chest
call me callous
but i will never forgive myself
for trimming the flowers
that sat innocent on the coffee table
in the middle of a mass grave
all i can say is
i was just the gardener

i found her
blooming on the living room floor
the baby cut
weeping from her umbilical cord
still attached to mother and father
by a rope traveling from neck to neck
thorny slices of fetal skin
peppering the carpet
blood sprays still wet
were soaking into the wooden door
sadism comes in many
limp limbed contortions
but only one color
and i saw *HIS smile
carved in the cavity
of her stomach
i swear to god
i wish i could say
i didn't see it coming

i found the severed tendons
of his fingers
suspended in the eerie light
of the swimming pool
pruned like overripe plums
the remnants of his face
scattered across the driveway
like taraxacum seeds
their bodies all
hanging like wilted stems
broken xylems hinged to sepals
by threads of sap
running down uprooted ligaments
there is not enough therapy in this world
to cure the silence in the garden
upon the aftermath of execution

the shapes of murders' footprints
left raised beds in my shoulder blades
manure smeared ***** across my lips
every flower i have ever planted since
has languished in the smell of your corpses
melded into the callouses
of my finger tips
i am just the gardener
and i am all broken anthers
petals shriveled, toxic
call me a survivor
but there is blood inside my filaments

I.

A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****.
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.

II.

A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.

III.

Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.

The lovely, amorous cherry blossom trees,
Decked well in shades of pink and white,
With clouds of boughs and blossoms rich,
Clasped, rubbed, caressed and hugged
And kissed on and on   in warm embrace;
And their bosoms   heaved and breathed O2.

Lovers came under the cherry blossom trees
With hearts filled well with thoughts of love,
In the shades of the boughs of pink blossoms,
They kissed and blushed with words fervent,
Danced   in joy round the blossomed trees,
And gasped in passion, and heaved out CO2.

The gorgeous, loving trees stayed there long
In vehement love, veneration and adoration,
With the alluring charm of the passing blooms
Painting again and again   the fleeting lives.
But choppers with axes sharpened were on
To hack their pink xylems and phloems.

KARMAS
The lovely, amorous cherry blossom trees,
Decked well in shades of pink and white,
With clouds of boughs and blossoms rich,
Clasped, rubbed, caressed and hugged
And kissed on and on   in warm embrace;
And their bosoms   heaved and breathed O2.

Lovers came under the cherry blossom trees
With hearts filled well with thoughts of love,
In the shades of the boughs of pink blossoms,
They kissed and blushed with words fervent,
Danced   in joy round the blossomed trees,
And gasped in passion, and heaved out CO2.

The gorgeous, loving trees stayed there long
In vehement love, veneration and adoration,
With the alluring charm of the passing blooms
Painting again and again   the fleeting lives.
But choppers with axes sharpened were on
To hack their pink xylems and phloems.

Here I stand, a monument to my own destruction,
carrying on the work of an ancient construction.
Hands made of callouses designed for moving rocks,
seconds pass to minutes to hours on the clocks,
and life flows downhill through the roots of a Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

Yggdrasil weaves its trunk through my history,
how it knows my life is its greatest mystery.
Its leaves reach to the heavens and caress the clouds,
through its xylems and phloems travels the worlds crowds,
and life flows downhill between the roots of this Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

The gods of dark places fight their battles in the light,
and all the eyes of all the folks turn from the murky night.
Yggdrasil stands tall like a black tower ‘tween land and sky,
where the hearts of the bravest men climb towards a lie,
and life flows downhill by the roots of the Viking tree,
to the garden, to the sea.

Conquered by the words of procrastination,
I could feel the breeze,
Slapping my leaves,
I already was
Suffering from heat boils
When suddenly,
I felt this parched soil!

This thirst from within,
Which could be felt up to the chin,
Was not getting quenched,
By those gales full of humidity
Cause the humans seemed to be too busy,
‘Ohh! How could they have the audacity!’

I implored a few tubs of water,
To drench my soul completely,
But I wasn’t in the frame of mind,
To beg the mankind more sweetly!

I stretched myself deep down the soil,
And requested my roots,
To not give up, so soon!
But the starving xylems finally said
‘The soil is dried
And we are about to die!’
Mixed up emotions, I took a deep breath.
And then finally, just said!

‘To all the sapiens,
Who saw me dying,
Who knew my importance,
But kept on lying
By pretending to be
The kings of this world!
You are doing nothing,
But letting yourself
Get cursed
By every single tree that collapses with me.
When you choke to death
You will remember me!
Refrain from this mistake
Dear men,
Cause it’ll be too late,
By then!

-Miloni Sonpal