The Last Thing

After he’d been imprisoned twenty-two years
On Robben Island, authorities transferred
Nelson Mandela to a concrete bastion
From whose bare walled-in roof a man could see
Only the sun-filled sky.

Missing the ocean,
The familiar grass and trees, the salt sea wind,
He asked for and was given sixteen oil drums
Cut in half, dirt filled, to plant a garden
On the roof. In his wide-brimmed straw hat
He worked his thirty-two plots two hours daily.
His harvested spinach and beans he gave away,
And lettuce, strawberries, carrots, aubergines,
Cucumbers, broccoli, peppers, tomatoes, beets –
Some to the warders, some to his friends,
Some to the common-law prisoners.

We give what we have. For the next six years
Of his prison term he gave time and labor.

We give what we have, give what we have too much of,
Give what we’ve made for pleasure of the making.
Sometimes we give what someone needs. Sometimes
Because of our need to be received we offer
Tokens of what we are. We have an ache
To be given, called desire, called lettuce leaves,
Called love tended in prison.