O, garden of plastic petals, of pink frogs-turned
-blossoms, of grape-shaped leaves, of tentacle-vines
& reflective purple pearls—brick-by-brick you build
my smile when I pass with a heavy hamper of toddler
-peed sheets & bloodied shorts.
O, orchid, your sentient
sister in danger on our kitchen island—dry dirt, beheaded
blossoms, leaves browning—but your leaves & petals
shine like my husband’s bald head finally surfaced
from seawater.
O, bonsai tree, my husband is your Mother
Nature—changing your colors by season. You’ve no snow
-coated leaves. No frozen roads, no loved ones lost to black
ice, car wrecks, blizzards or frostbite.
O, astridia & lotus
blossom. O, burro’s tail & spider plant. O, purple pearl &
pink moon cactus—praise your plastic permanence! Even
starved or drowned, bat-smashed or car-crashed, even torn
to bits, even so:
instructions for
resurrection.
Bethany Jarmul is an Appalachian writer and poet. She’s the author of two chapbooks and one poetry collection. Her work has been published in many magazines including Rattle, Brevity, Salamander, and One Art. Her writing was selected for Best Spiritual Literature 2023 and Best Small Fictions 2024, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and Wigleaf Top 50. Connect with her at bethanyjarmul.com or on social media: @BethanyJarmul.