Rogan Kelly

The Bromeliad Dying                        

The thing is, the sun moves.
The gardenia likes to be cool at night.
The black prince echeverias are divas—
demand light and threaten root rot at every
turn. One aloe plant wants to drink,
always. Another could fast for 40 days.
The ferns are moody and storm. The tropical
gingers are prostitutes on parade down Main
on Friday. My Devil’s Tongue is easy; leans
a little by the sill: a long soak in the sink
once a month and it seems to love me or forgive me.
The bougainvillea is a test of patience:
sheds like a mangy dog, catches cold,
goes dormant. Rests like a hairless cat from a perch.
Winter cacti mistake the season. The lavender sleeps.
The miniature lemon cypress looms by scent and color.
And then there is the bromeliad. She is dying
after hoisting the most magnificent pink bloom.
And before she goes she gives me pups.
Twin baby bromes. I’ve already delivered one
from her stem—cutting away with my peasant knife.
Moved her far from direct light, given her the best
pebble tray, plenty of drink. She is regal
in her silver variegated leaf. Sometimes, I wish
she had never flowered so I could keep her
with her grand foliage. But then she was born to bloom—
pass from this life like a hot shot.

Beeline

Moments like this when I’m sad-struck-stuck, I try to
remember. Beeline is a single word. I get so distracted by
purpose, or chance, color and flower. I pause and patter,
frump and buzz, to, about and from. Make the stems rock
and bow. Make the blooms pout, the nectar pow! Ease my
worry, the happy purpose, the puttering pollen work. A bee
with a bottom like a fat wine jug. I take the deepest pour. I
swing the deepest cut. Drink. Drank. Drunk. But how
ironic, a beeline is a lifeline flattened—a length of rope.
My lack of self-preserve proves worse. I try to remember.
When the storm is sure the bee moves on a track. Don’t
dawdle. Don’t slack. Beeline straight back to you.