Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
—Theodore Roethke
One pitcher grows out of a leaf’s end
Edged with a lip around the jug’s rim,
A mouth hanging in mid-sentence.
This plant of mouths grows fat, as leaves
Bend into tangled tresses of mute jugs.
From roots below its sphagnum moss,
I extract babies off the mother vine,
When placed in water, hair like roots grow
From their wounds. Taking cuttings is one way
To multiply. When I’m torn open, my core
Adjusts, like these plants, with the help
Of scars. As I pry another plant off its mother,
I see a petiole from one leaf threading
Itself around a neighboring pitcher,
So tightly I must snip it off. They get
Thinned, too. After soaking these
Babies, I place them on the sill
In the sun near their kin, and forget them.
I don’t watch their pitchers open or close,
Or flies or ants inch into their maws—a touch
Of blood is all our mouths crave.
