the maiden
the life blood in me dries up
in my spot on the mantle
but I guess she puts me here
because the quality of sun
is correct—she does not think
of the air vents above,
in this way she is like a bull
my arms are so thin they shake
she likes me best
of all the houseplants
because my shaking seems
most alive
she comes to inspect
the baby green shoots
but there are times I think
she wants me to die
when the decided day to water
passes she looks at me
tuesday wednesday thursday friday
surprised I am still waving
my fried yellow leaves;
some days entering another room
she enters June
goes through
the door to paris
Christine Kwon writes poetry and plays with cats in New Orleans.