There is a forest between my lover
and my love. Two years ago,
when my then-lover wanted the
trappings of Christmas, I bought
him a dozen blue roses and watched
them turn to sand in my apartment.
Now, when my love asks for Noel,
I give concession; we deck our railings
in strings of secondhand light;
I drive to the hardware store and
pick up a star pine. Not a true pine,
but a delicate tropical conifer that sheds
its needles like a Charlie Brown tree.
After New Year passes, the star pine
lives on its own bookshelf upstairs,
a difficult pet that needs nightly mist,
indirect sunlight, temperance in all things.
By July it seems to be dying. I tried too hard,
moving it from shelf to porch, front yard to
back, looking for perfect conditions, when
what it needed was a sure place. I return it,
slumping, to the bookshelf. You can
euthanize a plant, I know, but I don’t.
I talk to it, say I hope it will stay for
another winter with us. If it dies,
we will bury it in our garden.
If it lives, we will give it a name.
Originally published in DEAR Poetry Journal.
Jade Wallace (they/them) is a queer writer, editor, and critic. Their books include a genderless novel, ANOMIA (Palimpsest Press 2024), and 2 solo full-length poetry collections, Love Is A Place But You Cannot Live There and The Work Is Done When We Are Dead (Guernica Editions, 2023 and 2026). Wallace is also the cofounder of the collaborative writing entity MA|DE, which has authored 3 full-length poetry collections to date, 2 of which are forthcoming from Palimpsest Press: ZZOO and DETOURISM. More: jadewallace.ca + ma-de.ca. Photo by Mark Laliberte.