a poem about people who kill house plants

this is a poem about
people who kill house plants--
who set their orchids in
the windowsill & water them
till they wilt
& drop all their bright
lips to the floor
of our bedrooms-- we
use lipstick & paint
their scars on 
our own mouths-- open
the window to let their ghosts
frolic out in the backyard
where my mother's potted
herbs sing old hymns to 
each other--
the basil whose body dried
& broken-- shedding
wings like bassinets
the thyme who came apart 
like the second hand
escaped from a clock face--
i had a tiny woven tree
who dunked her legs 
in a bed of stones & drank 
water from her knees--
her death was slow & 
she would eat nightlight 
with me & i would tell her
stories about how someday she
would grow big
& i would plant her in the
backyard of my house when
i was all grown up--
she died that winter &
i didn't tell my mother or
my father that i cried & 
dumped out her brittle 
bones behind the garage 
where we had goldfish
funerals--
my grandmother used to 
keep african violets
next to sink--
i used to think of them
as thumb prints or bruises
or wrong-color kisses--
their necks thin & 
faces tilted
to catch mouthfuls of
sun in through
the glass sliding doors
to the porch--
they haunt each sink i 
go to-- they giggles 
& leave lipstick marks
on the backs of my hands--
kiss mauve & gold &
black & eggplant purple--
some nights as i wash dishes they 
hand me a towel to dry 
my hands-- ask me where i
had been all day & tell
how lonely they all were--
not just the african violets
but all of them-- the herb
plants singing Ave Maria
& the little bonsai tree
who thought that he could 
grow tall enough to hold a swing--
the tomato plants without fruit
& the windowsill orchid without
a face--
& when i come home 
they're always happy to see me
even though i could never
take care of them right
when they were alive--
i rub my thumb over their
petals or the underside of
their leaves & 
water them with apologies--
i say
call me a rain cloud--
one with a grey-chin
& we sit together through
the sunset telling ghost stories
& chewing on the last
pieces of sun
that somehow
always tastes like peach--