Plant

Angelo trims his dead mother’s
areca palm at irregular intervals.
He keeps it on the radiator
in his bathroom. The fronds
play across his naked back
when he gets in and out of the bath

and it reminds him of his mother
touching him such places as a boy.
The plant soars to the ceiling
and he takes scissors to its crown,
apologizing. The scissors are an inheritance,
and so is their savage sound
from another century.

One day he notices the palm
has a child growing beside it
in its large pot. Soon he calls it
little brother and feels a weird tingle
of sibling rivalry. The way she intertwines
with him. One day his green sibling
just goes missing from the pot.

Angelo crazily searches the entire house,
grills everyone who has had access to his home,
but nothing. The areca palm starts withering,
seemingly from this unexplained loss,
and nothing can save her. He hangs
her dried fronds on a wall in his bedroom

and his lovers just assume he must be Catholic

but doesn’t really want to talk about it.