My eyes, full of my husband’s body
thinning, swelling, sleeping—

too full to notice the plant,
six feet tall, emerald leaves splitting,
fraying the air.

One, then another branch breaks,
piercing my myopia. I weigh
a faux substitute I can’t kill.

Then think of my man,
how this is his Costa Rica
across from his TV and chair.

Double down—spend
a few hundred dollars,
buy a pot large enough
to hug, two fat bags
of soil. Hire two strong

men to tip the plant, coax
it from its stranglehold
into the large container
without crushing.

Carry the bedraggled thing
to the open corner next to
a cathedral-tall window.

I water it.
I water it.
And watch.

Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet living in Tuckahoe, N.Y. Her work has appeared in NewVerse News, Consequence, pacificREVIEW, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and soon, Witcraft.