my husband, the botanist, he dreams green. if you dropped an apple
into the ocean, imagine, it could wash up on an island with nocturnal trees.

the particular way branches branch resemble the pathways through
the heart. these are the things he says in the empty space before sleep.

how tedious to be a man; so perpetually unchallenged. he is making
his own kind of language only the plants comprehend. i paint flowers

in miniature. he tells me this is theft, a liberty and not only that –
preservation, which is contrary to nature. i find joy only in the shrinking.

like a strawberry, he presents his pips on the outside. they are so numerous.
at night the shadows of his hands move like leaves on the walls. he is a man

made up of dark pathways, but he isn’t a man at all. you can’t tell me
a carnivorous plant doesn’t have a brain, a brain and therefore a heart.

perhaps now i am talking about myself. in his greenhouse he is so far away
like a man underwater, a man in a block of ice. when i dream, his mouth

becomes a pea-sized hole and i press the tip of my little finger to it.
i eat him whole. in the garden the sunflowers rotate with the sun.