Derrida in the Garden

Derrida in the Garden
by Dennis Held

Stumped by the carrot’s rank and literal orange,
The frilly green top billowing like silk
Blouses as he stares at the Hole, the challenge
It forms: Fill me up! A substance like milk
Drips from a just-broken weed, a monarch
Feeding from the sap . . . Wake up! This is not
An idea of “Garden,” he sees, this fleeting
Dream. But nothing exists unless he meets it,
He decides, and feels instant relief. But
The Hole calls him back, the empty space
That must define. For without this absence . . .
No. It is only the place created
By the carrot pushing aside the soil.
By now, he is so hungry he would eat snails.