Don’t Send Me Flowers Unless I Can Plant Them
Because I’ve killed at least two side table cacti in the past
five years, but I’m still craving the presence of photosynthesis
so I keep buying houseplants. Not bouquets or plucked bundles
of spray-painted roses. No. Fuck that. I only seek roots that bloom
like little rivers. Philodendrons & spider plants. Deep heather. I miss it,
you know. Seeing things in color. The world of gardening claims many
blue flowers are imposters. Just an oceany purple. But that Delta Marina
pansy: real blue. Cry in front of your refrigerator blue. Sturdy-necked
& upright in the screaming wind blue, their petaled heads never sinking
or gnawed by rabbits, hungry for sunlight to cradle. Give me that
ultramarine apathy. That skymouth. That thriving. Let me learn
how to happily exist in a world so sun-starved & rainless.
Hannah Cajandig-Taylor (she/her) is a poet and flash writer residing in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. She's the author of ROMANTIC PORTRAIT OF A NATURAL DISASTER (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and has published work in Gigantic Sequins, Milk Candy Review, and Trampset, among others. She's been nominated for some stuff, but most recently had a piece in Wigleaf's Top 50 of 2021. She thinks that grapes taste better frozen and has strong feelings about umbrellas. Find her on twitter @hannahcajandigt.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.