I tried using
grow something from our
jasmine to lighten the darker parts of my libations
that hold me under the bath water,
but give it a fragrance of cure.
violets, honeywort, honeysuckles wafting from the roach holes,
mugwort to get my blood moving again,
Easter lilies the cats shouldn’t touch so I hang them from the rafters
and let the leaves fall brown one by one;
let the paws scatter the ashes of that,
mice, my previous
cheery dandelions in the cracks of the linoleum,
bromeliad at the doorway to protect me with her spikes;
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 bouquet of roses to give my daughter when she becomes
moss in someone else’s garden,
feral evocation an arboretum
started at the ankle. or
a whole cherry tree,
something sweet to chomp while I’m choking down
the new full sun.
I prepare the dried lemon balm
in the mason jar,
two cups of hot water,
watch the window blanket itself in white flakes
embrace the change in seasons
without a phone call or text,
much incident at all
considering our history.