Amaryllis
They’re crying for another turn
as I creep by with medicine for you.
Tubers bulging bigger than a fist,
they’ve overshot the vertical—
thirst for light so strong, they
charge the window, lunge at sun.
Cobra necks lance-thick, they won’t
shut down in a root-squeezing tub.
Even though I let them all go dry
till the last strapping leaf lay
yellow on the rug. I dumped them
in a cardboard box in the garage.
Gave them up to zero. You were
consuming all my care. In April,
trotting old instructions out,
I went through the motions,
half-hearted passes, dousing
wizened remains—a fool
dribbling water as if hope was
possible. For them, for you.
But green bursts from a slit
in every brown paper globe.
Theirs is pure bloody faith.
Something I’d better learn.
Kristin Camitta Zimet is the author of the poetry collection Take in My Arms the Dark and has poems in journals in seven countries. Read more.