I don’t know the name of the plant. It’s waxy,
“House plant” or “office plant.” Hard to kill, which
I like. Yellow-green leaves sprout from a thin stem-stalk,
With a green-green smear in the middle, as if painted
By an abstract artist, no two the same. I water it
Once a week, til the excess eeks out the bottom
Of its baby-blue container. Like this, I move
In certain motions, the ones that sustain. The ones
I need to do, like writing emails strategizing how to beat
The competition. Moving money from checking account
To savings account to credit cards and bill payments. I wonder
Where this plant would exist, natively. Surely the half-succulent
Wouldn’t tolerate the Seattle wet and rain. I wonder if it lives
In the wild, somewhere, and if it thrives in fields of its cousins,
Or prefers the brooding solitude beneath a shady tree. I wonder
Where I would exist, natively. I think I’d be in a forest, anywhere.
I’d migrate in cold winters. I’d write silly poems and love notes
And rest with eyes open. I’d sit with the trees and sing to them.
I think the word “house plant” would not exist. I think
I wouldn’t need to contain anything.
—
Mary McAfoose lives and works in Seattle, Washington, on the unceded ancestral lands of the Coast Salish people. She holds a degree in electrical engineering, and when not working corporate tech jobs, she enjoys writing relatable poetry, reading, and playing videogames.
