House Plant
The man at the nursery told you
I could live in a closet.
It depends what you call living.
Meaning, you could leave me
un-watered while you are away.
Meaning, I’ll always be green for you,
because that is my disposition.
He didn’t think you’d try it, but you
were curious because you thought
I lived for light.
I do. I turn to it, lean for it, stretch
in any direction, whichever way
I am rotated, whatever dark corner
you stand me in. I’ll find it. Call it.
What I do with this darkness
is an experiment. Your old
shoes. Ghostly skins of your shirts.
I am slivered and spindly-legged,
spring-loaded and
yes, still green, a strange green,
waiting for the shadows of your feet.
You have forgotten me,
but he was right. I can
slice this starved space
with the tip of a tendril.
I can break my own heart with any
blade of light
that edges through the bottom of that door.
Hannah Fries is the author of Forest Bathing Retreat and the poetry collection Little Terrarium, in which these poems appear. Read more.