I’ve decided I want to start a garden,
But all of my flowers keep dying.
I went out and bought some more.
Botanists call this species “ghosty”
And it makes sense why.
This one’s leaves lie pale and curled
On thirsty brown soil.
A translucent paper ghost
In a little potted desert.
They used to be thick with green flesh,
Filled with gooey chlorophyllic jelly —
A comely little cactus.
But all my flowers die
And this one is no exception.
I know flowers love to purify
A home’s malignant air with nothing
But their presence.
They take in the carbon dioxide.
The benzene and the formaldehyde
(It’s to preserve the bodies)
And clean it for consumption.
I want to see if I can grow
A garden of my own
To clarify the toxic chemicals
That haunt my house,
Like that poor succulent
That lies withered and wilting
On my windowsill.
was never much of a gardener
But it’s time for me to learn.
I’m starting to suffocate
On the smoke and skeletons
Stuffed in my closet.
I need something that can thrive
In the poisonous dark. Feeding
On the cremated secrets
Cramped in the smog
Behind that door.
Something like a mushroom.
So I’ll grow
A fungus to consume
The cancerous chemicals
In my makeshift morgue.
Flowers are too fragile,
A garden would never help.
Instead, I’ll cultivate a colony
to keep me
Safe from the corpses.
Mushrooms know how to clean too.
J.D.