Neruda had an anchor in his garden. Just this weekend while I pruned shrubs, my husband and son cut a yellow jasmine down to a stump. We have to dig it out later—we do yardwork in little bits, I imagine much to the dismay of our neighbors. But we got down past the old chair that originally was the foundation for the jasmine to climb—now a pile of rotted sticks. Neruda’s anchor must have fared better, a little more permanent, as the bindweed crept up “her freshness” while he waits for the day “carnations will flower / in her terrestrial dream.” My favorite part—
suddenly she believed
a ship’s tremor
The transplanted anchor, pulled from the shipwrecked depths, dreaming herself of the ocean, Neruda dreaming it for her. Wonder who inherited his anchor?