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.

fries_housePlant1.jpg

Hannah Fries is the author of Forest Bathing Retreat and the poetry collection Little Terrarium, in which these poems appear. Read more.


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