In Risa Bear’s “She Knows,” a gardener lives with the uneasy knowledge that the weeds will eventually win. They invade her dreams, and she wakes with phantom thistles or knotweed in her hands. Restless, she goes outside at night, opens the gate, and listens. The cultivated plants—corn, tomatoes, kale, chard—seem almost chatty, but the weedy beds beyond are silent. That quiet feels more threatening than noise: the weeds are patient, “biding their time.” She imagines them watching for her, wary of the sickle and fiery determination she brings by day. Yet even as she plans to fight, she accepts that the struggle has only one end. The mood is quiet, eerie, and slightly wry—part love of the garden, part resignation to nature’s longer patience. The gardener is not giving up soon, but she knows she is only holding the line.
She Knows — Summary
She knows the weeds will win. Sometimes, at night, Hearing them grow in her dreams, she'll wake, grasp Even in her two hands, a phantom thistle, or Knotweed, errant blackberry, or teasel.
Now not able to turn and sleep, she'll rise, throw On her robe, and step out into night; Walking the way the slim moon shows her, She throws aside her garden gate and listens.
There might be corn and tomatoes chatting, Having about as much to say as farmed things. Even a whisper among the kales and chard -- Whatever such things say. Beyond are beds Ensnarled in dock, barnyardgrass, bindweed, Everlasting morning glory vines. Dire straits; but there's no sound there.
She knows they're biding their time, Watching for her sudden return, sickle In hand, fire in eye, seed packets in mind. Level them, they fear she means to, or Leave roots drying in summer sun.
Well, that's tomorrow. She turns now; steps Into her lightless house. She'll give this up Not soon, yet knows how it must end.