Artifice

by Abigail Rollins

Illustration by Thalia Garcia

I want to know– does the fake plant

on my desk suck out the air

in the room?

If the window is shut, how long

until I suffocate completely?

It costs to look at it

each time I remember

the price tag I tore

off the bottom, tacky

glue clinging to fingers, it resisted

my pull to forget.

The pot is plastic, the dirt plastic, the fern leaves

I saw in childhood

cover towering faces, halls

of a canyon

while my dad bitched,

thorn in his side,

my sister shoved him

in surprise, he jumped out

behind a redwood to scare, her

shriek and pealing laughter

echoed on wet walls, plastic.

So tell me, please, what to feel

looking at what I know

never grew.