The Nursery

Photo by cottonbro studio

I am still getting used to my freedom,
still living like I’m boxed in—
still saying no to myself in her voice.

My own box, maybe,
built with every yes, and acquiesce.

Either way, I’m in.
Like a coffin.

I got this majesty palm for the living room,
with sprawling fronds
that push open my new curtain.
Why do you have that
there? she says.
She hates it.

In hindsight, maybe for spite,
I bought another one—
a spider plant,
for the night table where its leaves spill over
into her side of the bed.

She doesn’t sleep there,
so why does she care?

Every plant
reminds me of her—
a ring around my border

Maybe freedom begins
with a border crossing.

These plants—

ㅤㅤmy sprawling fronds—
ㅤㅤmy spilling foliage—

ㅤㅤㅤㅤpushing
ㅤㅤㅤㅤreaching
ㅤㅤㅤㅤgrowing

And maybe—
another plant
in another room.

Not in spite,
but to look back—

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤall
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe
ㅤㅤㅤway
back—

to that spider plant
spilling into her side
that palm
pushing open the curtain
their green light
glowing in my dark rooms.

A nursery
growing out of a funeral.

***

© Pixel Floyd