I tried using
grow something from our
jasmine to lighten the darker parts of my libations;
the ones that stroke my hair,
hold me under the bath water gently
as I kick.
violets, honeywort, scent of honeysuckle 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
(I’m just the fragrance of cured).
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,
(my roots are still sick)
something sweet to chomp while I’m choking down
the acidic no,
the extra pillow space,
my place–curtains drawn
devoid of moons,
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
openly without a phone call or text,
much incident at all
considering my history.