2022.14 Potted

Something of a confession, for those who’ve never visited to see the evidence first-hand.

When I get around to having them painted,
my nails tend to glisten red or black (or both)
and it’s a useful trope, a kind of anti-camouflage,
a timely warning, implication of mortification:
Here Lies Death.
You think I’m exaggerating? Listen…

It’s long been the case; the gentlest
of curses, but my windowsills are
perpetual hearses, bearing the bare,
brown corpses of the best of intentions,
forever bereft of the correct attention.

Too much water, not enough, these hot,
dry hands are too rough for all but the
hardiest of desert dwellers, and even then,
my aloe’s in a state of semi-permanent aestivation.
And don’t talk to me about the basil,
banished into mush in three straight days.

But while my presence promises dissolution
within shared walls, my garden’s in thrall to
vivacity, immune to my capacity for damage.
My leave-it-be policy summons up greenness
from even the meanest of cracks, patches of
ecstatic colour flourishing everywhere.

And this miniature wilderness shelters examples
of things I understand better: blessed with
independence and a lack of inimical chemicals,
the animal kingdom gambols among the
swaying fronds, fond of the opportunities
offered by the hedge’s shelter, the nodding grasses.

Give me your huddled masses of the
mammalian clades – I can nurse most hot-blooded
creatures into health from a shaky start;
soothing voice and steady, unflinching fingers
will take the domesticated and feral and welcome
both into a low stress mess of affection and good food.

(I’ve never tested this on reptiles or birds, so this
might not apply to every vertebrate.
And though it’s been 44 years since I
last killed a fish with kindness,
I just don’t trust this particular skill
doesn’t still linger in my possession.)

All of this, is, of course, a long-winded way
to say: thanks for the implication of domestic bliss
but the lesson to take away is this:
never send me a gift of a houseplant –
no, not even mint – unless you’re hellbent
on killing it. In which case, give it here!

Image from "Create a Potted Micro-Meadow With Ian Hodgson" via Lobster & Swan

I just went to get a sandwich in the middle of an Allographic Write-In, looked out of my window, and a poem started happening, which was tricky, because I had no means to write it down. I’m amazing this much of it emerged intact. These are all true tales, incidentally.