Because her roots are bound

by porcelain walls she has no news
of others. I worry for her. Believe
me when I say she visits every day,
her drooping leaves, her form
a prayer wounded by the one
who chose her. Her roots flail
through the white carpet, leave
dust faint as her voice. Lying
in my lap, a green streak,
she listens to poems about bearing
what’s given bearing fruit mourns
her yellowing leaves tired limbs
the spider taunting her for dying
how it rained yesterday droplets
wobbling on glass how she trembled.
We nurture death potting
one plant after another traversing
gardens. Divided,
I watch, do nothing
when she dies
the next one
& the next.