Low Fire

The succulent died weeks ago,

turning into a gray, hairy thumb

that smelled like damp laundry.

I tried to sneak it out before the landlord

could see how I kill things that are easy to keep.

The pot was heavy, cold, and grit-dry.

It slipped and hit the pine boards with a sound

like a bone snapping in a different room.

Now there’s a sharp orange tooth of clay

wedged deep in the gap near the radiator.

I can’t reach it, so I’ll just leave it there

to catch the dust and wait for the next tenant.