I tried using
grow something from our
aromatic whisper from the tickle of
freesia scented breezes,
ceaseless fragrant asylum in
a sweet alyssum,
zygocacti to practice patience; practice pruning
to wait for winter flora,
watch the spines build their blossom on an algid
Christmas morning, sip tea to warm next to my fireplace now lined with
clown-faced English pansies,
my newly discarded stockings, tissue paper,
rumpled bare bottom and side eye of someone soon to be discarded.
or a money tree for promise.
or a cherry tree:
something sweet to chomp while I’m choking down
the acidic “no,”
bromeliad at the doorway to protect me with her
self-effacing, straight and strong unlike the hard, twisted ways
I grow to be.
orchids to wilt in too much sunlight when I’m
doting myself to death,
a rose to give my daughter when she becomes
moss in someone else’s garden,
feral evocation: an arboretum
started at the ankle.
and our unsweetened breath:
beryl droplets of
coalescing into envelope coffins,
folded neatly, perfumed with gardenia,
origami carrier pigeons sealed with
unused tongue, red hell lips
floating off their ceramic posts
wafting in the westward wind,
the trees on your avenue are chilled to the root
and I’m just warming up,
counting down, cooling off and
condensing on your spout,
dripping down the sill
drops of paper rain
drifting through the open drapes
get the air you begged for.
bouquet of old expressions,
landing lightly on her leg
perched neatly on your bed
close to your clenched hand,
close enough to hold
seeping softly in her skin.