I am a transplant from Philadelphia, PA and retired college educator who has become part of the thriving poetry community of Southern California, which includes some of our fellow VVers. I keep myself busy writing, doing open mics and other readings as often as possible, practicing yoga, and enjoying the gorgeous climate in this area. In the age of Trump, I have joined with others to create a community of resistance.
All winter, this Phalaenopsis orchid,
domesticated in its plastic pot,
sits astride the kitchen sink,
back to the window blind,
staring like a prisoner.
Fuchsia and cream, reticulated
as a topographical map, its rivers
and its plains, the purple-veined
bodies in an anatomical atlas,
It has known only
the scented air of a hothouse,
the steam and stink of simulated tropics.
But after months of dormancy,
the flowers slowly turn
toward the light.
One flowering spike
spirals the window frame,
climbing up and up
toward the high ceiling.
External roots snake everywhere,
turning everything they touch to jungle.
Rubbery tendrils probe the recalcitrant
knife block, red plastic dish drainer,
bottle of Palmolive liquid, searching
for succor they can never find.
Yet fueled by sunlight, the plant
slowly makes a jungle
of my human world.
Under the Ironing Machine
My mother sits before this rectangular
monstrosity, feeding it sheets
damp from the washer. I squat
underneath, skinny knees hugging
my sides. The warm cotton billows,
becomes a tent where I sit with my books
and sketch pad, singing to myself.
The sun finds me, and I feel all this
will last forever, even after the smooth
sheets lie folded into squares
in the basket, and my mother stands
at the counter, kneading raw egg
into hamburger, offering me a bit
on the tip of one finger.
Even after the sun sags beneath the sill
and the moon opens her round silver eye.
© 2018 Robbi Nester
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