potted
a gift plant protests on the periphery
hidden from care by a plastic look—
its soil ravished to ash powder.
one leaf trades sheen for liver spots—
an overripe banana look, so
probably the whole thing’s fucked.
lord, let me not be potted.
let me fasten in real earth.
but if I must creep out
through drainage holes
that won’t expand around me
let me be cared for by one who knows
when to smash the vessel—
when to extract me from it.