Is it murder to kill a plant you have loved for 20 years,
watered, dusted the exotic leaves,
trimmed and fluffed,
treated for powdery mildew?
My green obsession is a remnant from an angry man I lived with
who kept me small so he could feel big.
When he landed a better job, he didn’t take us with him.
I cried buckets over that plant,
moved it with us every time we changed addresses,
repotted and repotted it.
I never knew what kind it was,
nor did I ever search to find out,
but I knew how much sun it liked,
what food made it stand tall,
when its roots were beginning to complain.
But now it is a no-named monster
overtaking my small house.
It is unwieldy when I want to clean behind it
and weeps viscous sap on the hardwood floor.
Since living alone, I want space for a comfy chair.
With great effort.
I drag it out the front door and across the driveway
where it sits, staring, accusing,
those magnificent leaves partly scorched from direct sun.
Perhaps I am the monster.
Cold weather is coming.
I could let winter take it, but for its sad eyes.
I know I’d be haunted, tangled up in its roots as I am,
smitten with its flattering, variegated tongues.
A monster comes in all shapes and sizes.
It’s one of those things we must learn to name.
