I never once saw you give up on a plant
no matter how old or shriveled or brown
you pulled seasonal Easter lilies poinsettias
pink polka-dot plants limp schefflera out
of the trash to set up on a china saucer not
always old or chipped to catch the drip
the way you wished your parents had saved
their marriage in 1943 and you from foster
care bunking in with Sonny on the Reed’s
canary sunporch later on our front porch
you stashed tin watering cans for orphans
like you in your best role at the Phoenix
Theater Harold an orphaned gangster
kidnapped by two teen orphans with nothing
to lose they tied Harold up in an intricate affair
of ropes and chair meant to give way
when knocked over so he could break loose
from his bonds after singing if I had the wings
of an angel o’er these prison walls I would fly
and yet Harold died in every production
Thursday through Sunday plus one matinee
each week your own death coming last year
when I inherited your name your pension
your dogs Harry and Blanche and one ancient
plant we bought at Garfield Park Conservatory
when we went to ask for our wedding date
to commemorate the occasion you chose
a night-blooming cereus an epiphyllum
of the leaf for its habit of sending shoots out
from the leaf’s edge an alien plant some say
blooming from odd angles one night a year
Linda Casebeer lives in Birmingham, Alabama. She has worked for many years as a medical education researcher. She has published poems in various literary journals including Slant, Earth’s Daughters, Canary, Chest and Hospital Drive as well as two collections of poems, The Last Eclipsed Moon and Charm and Strange. Her favorite revenge story is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
