Stella Beratlis, Lisa Erin Robertson and Helen Wickes
Just do a straight hardwood cutting.
Place them into a large glass vase.
These are sticks, sticking straight up.
There’s a conflicted pleasure
in how the sap can flow in the branch,
disembodied from the shrubby heart.
Wait for the buds to open. So alive,
a sea-monkey that wakens in water,
O monstrous. O propagation.
I’ll never tire of these stems
orphaned from the root ball,
severed from the mycorrhizal web
as if nothing else mattered.
For those of us missing symbiosis
with its fungus and host plants,
we’re sad figures who stick to it,
queen bees, parthenogenitors
of our own aquariums, brine-shrimp-land—
or trapped inside of snow globes,
our handsome cuttings loud, self-mothering
as we push into tiny new spaces.
first published in The Dirty Napkin
They walk, but it’s not quite walking—
I’d say they approach, with eagerness, not exactly
as you remember them, but somehow
better—at ease—having arrived at the essential
comfort they longed for, so unattainable
in life, and now stripped of all
that onrushing, kaleidoscopic existence, they’ve
acquired a simple presence, and as you step
closer, it’s evident they have each become
what you hoped for, as you have surely
turned into someone they envisioned,
your silliness and evasions, your rigidity included,
but as you observe in their faces
an endless calm, where once there was boredom
or rage, adoration or bemusement,
none of this matters, which is in itself a small sorrow,
that their old hunger for you
to say something funny, sit for another hour,
and feed their slavering dogs, that’s all gone now, and there
isn’t a thing you can offer them, and nothing
you can take back with you.
first appeared in Poetry Daily