crickets as witness
we wash the remnants of dinner off of our plates.
pickle juice, soggy crumbs, a piece of a piece of a potato chip.
this is when hair has dried just enough for it to beg to be wet again.
and this time, after the swim, it won’t dry beneath the pressing palm of the afternoon sun.
it will lay limp, seaweed on pillow.
and you, tangled in it, tipping over into sleep.
I forgot my plant.
The one encased in a pot the colour of rust
squatting in fudgey earth and extending into ribbons of green.
I wanted to lug it with me,
bring it to a home
where it could lick at the morning sunlight
and welcome me back after school days that melt into one another.
But I forgot to bring it.
My new house with its creamy walls and bleached chairs misses it too,
the stale air craves the taste of root,
the windows open in anticipation,
the sun beams reach for imagined emerald leaves.
Each table sits with hope for when this pot of life will rest on them.
My mom told me owning a plant is self-care.
When you care for it, you care for yourself.
So I’ll drip water over myself
I’ll bathe in sunlight
and chew on the air.
I have learned to take care of myself here,
without my plant.
And my plant can take care without me.
emily coppella is a writer, yoga student, and feminist from the GTA. She is currently studying English Literature and Language at Carleton University. She plans to graduate with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Women and Gender Studies. Her poetry has been published by Coven Editions, In/Words, and has won 2nd place for the George Johnston Poetry Prize. Film, music, and social justice are some of her other passions.
deathcap is Coven Editions' online literary mag featuring a curated collection of poetry, fiction and community pieces. Review our Submissions Guidelines for more information if you are interested in contributing to deathcap.