What Grows There

She keeps it in the window

where it glows at dusk,

backlit, and I'm standing there

too long, trying to understand

what it means that her plant

is alive and thriving

while mine died in February

in the dark corner of my room.

The shadow is sharp against the wall.

Backlit like that, it looks important—

like proof that if you put yourself

in the right place, in the light,

you'll survive anything,

even spines, even no roots,

even the drought that would kill

anything softer than this.

She doesn't talk about it.

The cactus just exists

in her space, asking nothing,

growing the way she grows now—

slow and deliberate

and away from here.

I could buy one.

I could put it in my window.

I could stand in that light

and pretend that the problem

was never the plant,

was never about keeping things alive,

was always about having

somewhere to keep it.

But I won't.

I'll go home and look at the corner

where my plant used to be,

where dust has settled

into the exact shape

of the pot.