I Swear I Just Watered Them (or, I’m Just Tying to Keep Myself Alive)

Two acquaintances brought flowers
in orange grocery-store pots,
wrapped in crinkling plastic,
to my birthday party — what else
do you buy a woman turning 30?

They don’t know that I’ve murdered a cactus,
or stood by while a succulent’s deathbloom
erupted from an aesthetic teacup,
or that I could never remember
to feed the goldfish I won at the fair.

One of my latest beautiful burdens
is some finicky, high-maintenance orchid
that needs to be watered from below
on an extremely specific schedule,
and kept at just the right temperature.

I move it anxiously in and out of
direct sunlight, each disturbance
costing another delicate petal;
each one falls to the floor like evidence
of how I would make such a bad mother.

The other plant seems hardier,
but suddenly, it, too, droops —
I’ve left it out on the balcony too long;
for some reason, I can never remember
the last time I watered it.

Someday soon, I know I will forget
how to care for them correctly
and shall find them limp and lifeless,
petals scattered like unbrushed teeth
leading to the scene of a crime.