Horticulture Blues - Part i

Mother,

You always wanted a houseplant for a daughter,

something you could force into soil and water when convenient.

Maybe I could fit into the pot by the printer,

your busy fingers scrubbing my roots clean before you dropped me in

and forgot about me.

You've always bragged about having a green thumb, after all.

But you forgot to check my tags,

mother,

and even your (un)nurturing hands could not prevent my decay.

Or perhaps I look better hung from your ceiling, mother,

limp roots trailing a map to all the places you've fucked me

over.

I'm sure my own vines make a lovely rope necklace,

vibrant green against deathly grey,

twisting roundandroundandround my neck

and squeezing.

We never had a chance, mother.

But you grew us anyway,

and one by one we tumbled out,

worm-infested apples to your wise tree.

You dusted us off and called us beautiful,

took us back into the very reaches of yourself.

As you plucked grubs from your smile,

you told us to thank you

for bringing us into our own dead world.

We wouldn't grow in your stomach, mother.

We wouldn't grow at all.

You planted fireweeds and hoped for roses,

then burned your crops at the first

sign of weakness.

Mother,

through fire and flooded field,

the only danger to our germination

was you.