RYLER DUSTIN

Man in a Garden

My father gives advice in my garden:
prune the apples every spring. 
The tomatoes need more manure. 
This dirt is drier than death. 

All his life, he has been trying to learn
the slow, awkward language of care.
His father’s love was a dialect of fists
passed down from the mining camp 

where he was born. Now my father
paces our perimeter, frowns 
and installs a length of barbed wire
to guard against deer. He kneels 

and whispers to the melons, 
something tender no one can hear. 

Agate Bay Gas and Minimart

After we make love in our new apartment,
I think of my boyhood bus stop, 
a burned-out minimart across the county road— 

how, before the sun rose, we’d line up
by the bulbless lamps, gas pumps 
with their tubes torn out, 
the storefront’s smoky windows 
lit with flames of pink graffiti. 

Once, the seventh grader Ann 
left her place in line and led me 
into the brush behind the store. 
She leaned by a broken window, 
pulled me close, and kissed me 
in the scent of rot and firs. 

Past her shoulder, I could see 
into an older, burned up world— 
a wreck of blackened beams, 
soft drink ads in swirling ash, 
the glint of shattered glass 

where two lean cedars shivered 
above the cracked linoleum— 
formless, flashing silver 
in a shaft of early sun 
they both leaned into.

Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Ryler Dustin has represented Seattle on the final stage of the Individual World Poetry Slam and performed spoken word across the U.S. He’s the author of Heavy Lead Birdsong from Write Bloody Publishing, and his poems appear in places like American Life in Poetry, Gulf Coast, The Southern Review, and The Best of Iron Horse. He lives and teaches in mid-Michigan.