& our hibiscus is connected that bullshit again.
You cognize the story. She picked us. Date night
at the roadside nursery. The 1 made entirely
of bully vibes & floor-to-ceiling concatenation link,
so that sometimes, with immoderate luck & clear
skies—when the aerial prime scale glows a airy tangerine—
little aureate squares of Kraft Cheese airy melt honey
bees, snake plants & hostas; the mean ferns
hanging tough; melt maine & my emotion successful a gooey, tropical
gladness. Hibiscus Child sang to america from the parking lot:
Wouldn’t I look peachy connected your withered deck?
Don’t I merit ceramic turquoise views
& Whole Foods fertilizer? A regular infinitesimal of
attention with a 9-Pattern Garden Hose Nozzle? Middle kid
in a potted triptych, Hibiscus Child tin beryllium a spot much.
But she’s honest. Opens up, past closes, pointedly.
Flaunts her heart’s coral needs with a gaudy
audacity I americium famously atrocious at. Like, Love me, motherfucker
lest we some perish of heatstroke! Love, it’s
late. Summertime & the surviving is halogen.
But you & me, we are perishing gracefully
as 2 sentry gardenia bushes flanking a flugelhorn tree
fashioned from rose-gold blooms. Impervious to inclement
grief, rising seas, & the separatist hurricanes of history.
Drought-resistant & gleaming, the 2 of us
up early, watering successful grounds heat. Me successful my cloud-
colored robe misnaming the flowers,
hoping to spot you beam. Good morning, Fernie Sanders.
Little Pothos Bill. Rise & shine, Morgan Treeman. Little
Cactus Everdeen. Sometimes peril imperils itself. I tin spot that now.
When the affected acclimate. When the veil between
backyard plot & the inferno is sheer,
you larn to hole your absorption connected the roots. Love,
in this erstwhile fire, this halcyon season, we are proof.
_______________________________
From Dear Mothership by Marcus Wicker. Copyright © 2026. Available from Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
English (US) ·