The window is a plant
hospital, small huddle of yellow
green things, nameless leaves
curling against the cold.
February has ended. I am,
again, responsible for the poorly
potted, the living. The cactus
can hardly hold its hands up,
elbows drooping limp over metal
stakes, it hobbles on haphazard
crutches against a draft
of wind. Yellow Cactus, you
brave thing, the only one of your kind
to survive the winter. Your blue
green brother rests his empty limbs,
unrooted on the kitchen counter.
The hearty aloe hangs heavy and dry.
I can’t stop killing what I love,
I’m careless, spend the cold
months sleeping. But you,
you enter the dream
as though you’d been there
Christie Towers is a poet and educator living in the Boston area. Her work can be found in Narrative, Nimrod, Belle Ombre, Bodega, SummerStock Journal and others.