On my back porch a potted plant
is dying. I never knew what kind.
Its leaves are spiky fronds, all yellow-brown;
some bow, while others touch the ground.
I could not bear to watch it die
inside. A year or more I watered it—
too much or not enough? I’ll never know
how I hastened it to this end.
The plant you gave me months ago,
against my judgment, thrives. Green
glossy leaves give color to a dull
corner of the living room. New
leaves spring from slender shoots
like infant hands unfisting to wave
at me or greet bright sunlight. I touch
them often: smooth, soft as my thumb’s
tip. We agreed you’d take it home
if it showed signs of dying. Last spring
I planted grass in the desert dirt
of my back yard. On your advice,
I roto-tilled and spread topsoil
and fertilized. I watered twice
a day. The seed took, the grass grew:
blue grama in thick patches. I dare
pray it will survive the winter
coming on. I dare say your gift
of faith in me has given me
new faith. I think of you, my friend,
as sun I lean toward that helps me
stand strong on my own.
–
Marisa P. Clark is a queer Southerner whose writing appears or will soon appear in Apalachee Review, Cream City Review, Ontario Review, Crate, Foglifter, Pangyrus, Pilgrimage, Pomme Journal, and elsewhere. Her creative nonfiction was recognized among the Notable Essays in Best American Essays 2011. She reads fiction for New England Review and lives in New Mexico. Her poem “For Michael…” was written for Michael M. Moghtader.