Potted Plants

[Pseudonym]

The flower in my mother’s kitchen was dyed:
inside and out,
But drew cleansing water from clean soil,
and slowly turned pure white.

The woman in my mother’s kitchen is dyed.
No longer just the parts of her which were already dead;
her hair, her nails, and now,
her heart.

If she could take root,
draw strength from her surroundings,
maybe, slowly, she’d return.
But now she sits, in this blasted heath,
soaking up chemicals and bad dreams.



--Original--
The flower in my mother’s kitchen was dyed:
Inside and out.
But it drew cleansing water from clean soil,
And slowly turned pure white.

The woman in my mother’s kitchen is dyed:
No longer just the parts of her which were already dead;
Her hair, her nails, and now,
Her heart.

If her soil were clean, if her water were clear,
Maybe, slowly, she’d return.
But now, she sits, in this blasted heath,
Soaking up chemicals and bad dreams.