I grow in a hot house,
in a temperature controlled space,
with artificial light.
And Kitty walks around in her bathrobe & slippers,
scrunching across the pebbles,
in the semi-darkness.
Chain smoking and tickling my green under belly,
talking out of the left side of her mouth,
saying “Grow, you god damned son of a bitch.”
I hear her and I think…
“I prefer to stay small.”
“I prefer to wilt right here on the vine.”
“I prefer never to know red.”
“I prefer to be compost to the harvest.”
…Then I can escape the gas.
I’m forced to grow, forced to choose.
–Barbara L. Lazarony
