How we both prefer dappled light
the north side of a house,
how we’re easily scorched
by well-meaning sun.
I worry about my houseplants.
Did I overwater the jade?
Should I have been braver when I cut back the monstera?
Will the fiddle leaf forgive me for the draft?
I wonder if they miss me.
No one there to sing into the swirl of begonias,
to rattle the ficus by the hips,
to charm the prayer plants at night.
I wonder if the orchid knows how impressed I was by her last bloom,
if the ogre ear likes their new dragon,
if the staghorn knows how much I admire her shield.
How grateful I am for everyone’s patience.
I think of you—below—the furthest distance
we’ve been, but the closest I’ve been
to understanding
you and your cactus self.
How you thrive
sun-drenched in a dry heat,
how, despite your prickle, you still bear fruit.
At dusk, when you are tender
and alive, I wish for you
a nectar bat, cheeks round
and full of your offering.
In the spring, let me be offered
bonemeal, stone-steady;
Let me be adorned in dew.
Let me unfurl without crisp edges
Alice Agro-Paulson is a Brooklyn-based developmental editor, poet, and grief tender. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Voicemail Poems, Eunoia Review, S2F, Bending Genres, The Palisades Review, and elsewhere. Alice has been supported by RWW and Tin House while working on her hybrid speculative memoir. She has been nominated for Best of the Net.