On the moonwalk of a first conversation,
we float between stars, pointing together,
using what we’ve got of rare oxygen.
When speaking with a stranger, sometimes
I wake up in the middle of speaking
and catch myself in the crater of a lie.
I am afraid no one will understand.
Really understand.
Just this week I told a woman on a first date
I was terrible at keeping houseplants alive.
She liked me. There was no need to lie.
It’s true, last autumn many friends left my life.
and with them, twenty of my houseplants
gave themselves up to fungus.
But now, my life is so full of greenery
and good living. I wonder why I put the lie
on the table when she moved closer
on that dark, moon-lit bench.
I wonder what I’ve got left to hide,
when all the plants are doing so well.
Tara Labovich (they/them) is a writer and lecturer of English in Iowa. Their teaching and writing has won awards such as the Pearl Hogrefe Grant, Adelaide Bender Reville Prize, and is nominated several times for Best of the Net and the Monarch Queer Literary Awards. Their writing can be read in journals such as Brevity, Crannog, and Salt Hill.