Potted Plants

[neb123]

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.

I enjoyed this poem, Pseudonym. On first read, its sentiments remind me of those in "A Doll's House" or The Awakening. The mother/housewife--the woman in the kitchen-- feels masked by those labels...trapped by them like the potted flower. The potted flower has adapted to its environment; the woman has not.

Then I was drawn to the use of "dyed" instead of dead or died...and I thought of something tainted--tinted with a bad hue.

I think of illness reading this poem...but also of a heart that's broken emotionally as well as physically.

Thanks for sharing!