Rosemary Adam

Rosemary Adam

IN A NAME

She’s lying in the hands of the Botanical Garden

unsure of her name*. No one could explain

where she came from. They knew that when

she strengthened after being dormant

for seven years, she exploded.

Gender uncertain, she grows with geraniums;

their soil keeps her moist and feeds her stems

and her five inch underground tube.

No, she’s not bitter because she cannot be defined.

A definition could diminish her. Her origins ask

questions even the experts cannot categorize.

I clap for her, applaud nature’s behavior,

force my hands to sounds louder and more intense.

I want to see her shiver from my praise.

*Arum Palestinium, maybe

Rosemary Adam

HER LIVING

Adele lived in a home

where the furniture reasoned itself

into place.

She did not create but became

swept up in oak armoires

and massive pieces, she could

neither move nor tolerate.

Though aware that her lover

would leave her soon, she was

unable to shed her gestures at pleasing:

she was expert at conciliation

especially in the good times.

After the parting she managed

to push the recliner close to the window

changing her perspective

from the cat box to the sun.

The armoire went into the storage shed

and the patterns of her caftan

swirled and clung, musky with possibilities.

Rattle: Poetry