Not that it’s enough, simply to adore a person
But I adore her
The way sansevieria reaches for the perfect ceiling
The way hypoestes develops its pink spots like dark room photographs
The way arthurium sucks on ice cubes
The way golden pothos rests in a trail on the hardwood floor
The way aloe waits in desertion for weeks
The way opuntia bursts out of itself when I least expect it
The way tradescantia purples with a cool dousing
The way chlorophytum begs me to stroke its hair
The way crassula bends toward its sedum friend
The way mammillaria holds onto its floral nipple
The way echeveria suns its silver skin
The way peperomia gathers around itself like a drape
And when I say adore, I mean, of course, love
Which the houseplants know without saying so
…
Triny Finlay is a queer writer, teacher, and mother whose poetry collections include Myself a Paperclip (2021), Splitting Off (2004), and Histories Haunt Us (2010). She lives in Fredericton, NB, where she teaches English and Creative Writing at the University of New Brunswick.
