watering fake flowers

you tell yourself
"this time it will be different."
i remember the sun tapestry 
that hung on the far wall of 
your bedroom. your tiny window
staring at the brick wall
of the bodega next to our building.
eating french fries 
from angels & pretending 
we were the prophets. the way a wrist 
can become a stem. i bought you flowers 
from the gas station & we devoured them
with ranch dressing.
took a trowel to the wooden floors
& tried to find third-floor soil.
nothing by photographs
lay beneath. that's where we put
the plastic flowers: a hydrangea bush
& roses & marigolds. 
i got on my knees to water them.
poured a river from my wrist.
you had your headphones in. you were
sharpening a letter opener. 
my heart was always a jackelope around you. 
remembering how easily 
i turned into a rat. you,
chasing me
down the narrow hallway.
once, it rained so hard the alley ways flooded.
you came home as a drenched dog.
i brought you a towel to dry you off
& you shoved me against the wall.
you said, "lay down." i became
the plastic flower. a carnation.
a needy root. i always though maybe
they might come alive.
that through a process of dreaming
i could make us soft & moss-like.
what i've never told you is
sometimes
but only when you weren't home
the flowers would turn real.
they would laugh & blow kisses.
i would say, "will you stay?"
they would reply
or maybe just echo, "will you stay?"