The Spite of the Desert Plant

It’s been on the sill since the day she left,

a dusty green arm reaching for a gray sky.

I haven't watered the thing in six months,

yet it refuses to do the decent thing and die.

I reached out to move it closer to the glass

and a needle caught the meat of my thumb.

A tiny, bright bead of blood began to pass

through the skin, making my whole hand go numb.

It’s living on spite and the humidity of the sink,

a prickly survivor of a house that went cold.

It doesn't need me or what I might think,

it just sits there growing increasingly bold.