The Split Plant

Landlord said, 'Get rid of it. It's dead.'

This fern, grown monstrous, brown around its head,

wouldn't fit the kitchen bag, no matter how I bent.

So I borrowed a saw, rusty, from the tenant

next door, and dragged it to the hall.

The blade caught, then bit. A grating, thin, raw sound.

The effort pulled the sweat right down my brow.

Green sap, thick as syrup, oozed to the ground,

on the newspaper, making its own sticky vow

to stain. I sawed again, a jerky, crude stroke.

Felt the resistance, then the give, like something broke

inside. Two halves now. One still tries to lean,

a husk against the wall, dry, dull, obscene.

The other, a wet tangle, on the newsprint there.

The rough, torn edge of something, ripped and laid bare.