Hothouse

By Ryan Nowicki

There was a blossoming in my chest 

One night, when I was alone 

At home, mulling the day over 

Again in my head, 

Where my heart awakened, ceased to rest, 

From which vines grew greener than envy— 

She was there, an aspiration, 

Both newly conceived 

And forever longed for. 

They were callously thorned, so prickly 

That when they fruited, the red flower— 

Bloody, 

Bloody, 

Bloody as all get out— 

Died and became an ulcer, a shower 

Of fertilizer onto a stomach lump. 

Nextdoor in the hospital, 

A woman, too, waited 

For her tumor to be examined. 

Next to my bed, she was gleeful, plump 

Bellied and pushing her tumor out— 

It hurt, I could tell— 

Her teeth grimaced, 

Her muscles focused— 

From her womb, her stomach; her long bout 

Was intense and, once over, was calm— 

She sighed relief, 

The weed plucked from her bed, 

A garden’s harvest clutched close in her arms— 

With an ambience of love, no psalm. 

I stared at her in silent, solemn loss— 

Why the pleasure? My abdomen aches 

And yet the tumor is still, 

Never to move, 

Never to grow, 

Never to ache and break and become anew, 

Forever wilted in my arms—

My heart curdled; I knew mine could try,

But no matter our predicament, I would

lie, I would die.