The Greenhouse
On a corner lot
nestled among two story homes
wooden swing sets
and paved driveways
stands a glass greenhouse.
Black framing lines
each window and door
and a warm light reveals
leafy vines and rows of plants
resting on high wooden tables.
On eight winter mornings
I escaped there
running through the cold
while my daughter lay
under fluorescent lights
and heated blankets,
working on not dying.
Most days a woman was inside
her arms raised as she tended
the hanging plants
or hunched forward when she worked
on the rows of terra cotta pots.
I watched her train vines
up a mesh screen
and prune brown leaves.
I watched as she tipped
a copper can over each plant
gently moistening the soil.
On eight winter mornings
I paused there, resting
my hands on my thighs
as I caught my breath
before the inevitable return.
On eight winter mornings
I left my daughter’s room
walking past patients slumped in wheelchairs
and visitors with nervous smiles.
Outside, I’d pull the cool air
into my lungs
my sneakers crunching
on salted pavement.
I’d turn to see
my daughter’s window
guilty for the relief I felt in leaving.
On eight winter mornings
I’d run until I felt the fear
turn to a dull ache
that moved through my limbs.
I willed myself to feel
the humidity – an embrace –
that existed within those glass walls.
On eight winter mornings
that greenhouse saved me
while the doctors saved my child.
And leaving that place
felt as much a gift
as the woman who made the choice
to cultivate life
right there in the midst
of so much cold.
Open Water
She met him downtown at a pet store
called ‘Howl’. His red vest
was oversized and the white name tag
pinned to it said Daisy.
He showed her where the fish bowls
were and gave detailed instructions
about how to safely transplant
her betta to its new home.
“Daisy’s an interesting name,”
she commented, reaching for
the rubber plant outstretched in his palm.
“Oh, that’s my dog,” he explained.
“The manager told us to put
our pet’s names on there to help
start conversations with customers.”
At the register she said yes
when he asked her if she’d like
to go out some time. He handed her
a pen that was tied with twine
to a jar of treats so she could
write down her number.
Later, when he stood at her door
not in his uniform but wearing a Nirvana
t-shirt and black Converse high tops
she said, “Hey Daisy” and they smiled,
knowing that this would be their joke.
“Be sure to have her back by curfew!”
her mom yelled from her spot
deep in the couch cushions.
She rolled her eyes and reached
for his hand and she knew
that the night was hers
and it was theirs
and they turned toward the road
that mixed with the sky
and glittered out before them.
Brotherhood of the Brotherless
There’s a bittersweet kinship
among those who’ve lost a sibling
a strange comfort in all
that does not need to be spoken.
Like how it feels to take a seat
at the Thanksgiving table
or to line up for family pictures
at weddings and graduations
knowing there should be another chair
at the table, another body
to drape your arm around in the photo.
There should be an asterisk
on everything that comes after.
And while we all just keep getting grayer
and more tired and freckled and wrinkled
our brothers remain captured, suspended
in yellowed 3x5 photographs with curved edges
stuck in thick, chestnut-haired days
wearing their faded, ripped cutoffs
their tanned, toned limbs gleaming
and wide grins spread effortlessly
across their faces in anticipation
for all that is surely to come.