2025-02-06

Dying Poinsettia in Our Window

She lived, like Anna, in a chapel,
Until Father,
Behest of Pastor,
Sent her away,
Because Christmas was over.

She came home with us,
And I was envious of her soft yet textured
Red dress
And green trimming.

I don’t think she liked the window.

Though she would always smile back at me,
She once asked where all the reds and blues
And yellows and greens had gone.

I liked to watch her,
Plumage at altar,
Swept in the careening dance of light,
Standing up tall and full.

By mid-January, she developed a cough
And asked if God would come to visit,
As they had once been roommates
And loved each other dearly.

I told her she ought to know better——
And she agreed.

It’s warming now,
early,
And bored,
Lonely,
She slouches towards despair.

Undressing,
She leaves her gown on the floor:
More shit to stick to my feet.