an elegy to the plants i've killed 

if i had plants now i would tell them secrets.
i would crouch down & bury my mouth
in their leaves-- press my lips to 
the faces of orchids. watch their stalks 
tremble with words. watch them try 
to not tell each other. all the plants
i've ever had have died & sometimes i think
it's because i never talked to them.
could they have died of loneliness?
i took myself to the botanical gardens 
& there was an exhibit where
you could listen to plants. 
i put on headphones 
& heard their muffled singing--
clear in through the headphones. one fern
singing jazz-- a flower humming 
a nursery rhyme. i wondered why
my plants never showed me their voices
or if that wasn't their job--
if i should have sought them out more.
i ambled around the gardens speaking to plants 
& laughing about how strange it seemed.
sitting at the foot of 
a bare cherry blossom trying to
talk it into blooming. telling the tree
stories of humans playing
in the snow. was she sad about
being stuck in one place? i got her to 
bud & open one flower & i stuck
it in my hair. i thought about 
all my plants & how i watched them 
slowly fade. the last plant
was a small pinkish orchid
in a too small pot. i wished
i would have taken my headphones
& plugged them into the dirt.
what would the flower have said?
would it have just been screaming?
a farewell? a gentle crying?
i go to the green houses to ask
other orchids what mine might
have said to me if i would have spoken
to it. i ask & ask & ask &
the orchids cover their faces
with their leaves-- too shy to 
look at me. i beg them
to explain what my orchid might have felt--
if it was me who killed it but 
they won't move. they go silent 
for me. i keep walking till i reach
the lemon tree & i tell the tree
how much i want to live somewhere
breathing-- how sometimes the city feels
is a knot of dead plants. we're climbing
all over to chew on the sweet rotting bits.
i chew on a square of sidewalk outside
the gardens. the leg of a tree
digs in to the path & i kiss 
the tree's knee. i tell the tree
that i want to have a word with it.
i speak to the bark--to the woven-like patterns.
i admit i feel guilty but i also wish
my plants would have spoken to me.
how ridiculously obvious our wants can be.
i ask the tree to show me his voice 
but he stays silent & i take the train how
to a room where there are no plants.
outside a thin tree grows 
from the sidewalk.