My house
is an IKEA garden.
Polyester palms
in doorways.
Synthetic succulents
lining windowsills
like guards.
In the apartment we shared,
there were natural flowers.
Birthday Tulips
that whispered promise.
Let-it-go lilies that latched
onto flimsy heartstrings.
Life’s easier now,
I tell myself,
with this artificialness of mine.
Better,
with this plastic
that keeps its promise
to never wilt.