Philodendron has clambered out of every vase and jar I own, stepping over the counters, around the books, between the
sheets; wax green vines run over the carpet, leave patterns in the shag, are breaking up the bricks in the fireplace;
no one would take my cuttings and now I couldn’t part with them without losing my home, as the roots keep on their
lovely snarling, hunkering down in the chairs, running along the baseboards; the wallpaper is afraid.
There’s no fearing all this growing, though–in fact, I’ve been having good dreams, all dark, wet jungle dreams, sleeping mostly on the couch, watching the waxy hands clasp over the television and windows, consummate what they began sleeping in my bed and bathing in my tub, burning my candles and swilling my wine.
Sometimes, I reach through the jungle and twist on the shower, drench the room in steam
until the ceiling rains, until we feel clean.
There are philodendron on my ankles, shackling me in–they were there when I woke up this morning, their
gentle tugging turning me aside from my quest to get the morning paper; hugging my arms, they had the door
closed and bolted; already they are rooting thick, insistent veins, eating up the wood like palmprints; the door
was never there.
I like the way they follow me around the house, toss me arbitrarily down the stairs, bend me backwards over the
kitchen table, wrap my eyes and rope living through my teeth until I can stop screaming and listen to my own small
heart wrapping the unlit still–
I am sucking steam for breakfast, now; the mirrors are afraid.