…there is nothing more surreal, nothing more abstract than reality.
Because I have no roots to speak of
I choose a bulbous specimen
George tells me is indestructible
and if I lived in Mexico would grow
the size of my kitchen table. I carry it
home in the car like an adopted child.
When its blanket of gravel spills
beneath the seat, I panic, swerve;
it stays steady, stoutly anchored.
I water it and slip its tan plastic
inside purple ceramic, happily
matching the base of its leaves, folded
into each other, like family, where one
and many gather. These leaves, searching,
thinning to nothingness, sprout
from the scaly caudex in a topknot
of bright ideas that might make a difference
to the air it lives in, which I swallow,
changed already for seeing it there,
taking up residence on my windowsill,
elephant’s foot going nowhere.
What’s writing really about?
It’s about trying to take fuller possession
of the reality of your life.