& our hibiscus is on that bullshit again.
You know the story. She picked us. Date night
at the roadside nursery—an enclave built entirely
out of good vibes and floor-to-ceiling chain-link,
so that, occasionally, if fortune favors clear air—
when the air quality index glows a pale tangerine—
tiny squares of Kraft Cheese illuminate the scene, coaxing honey bees, snake plants, and hostas to glow; the ordinary ferns
hang stubbornly; melt me and my beloved into a gooey, tropical joy. Hibiscus Child crooned to us from the parking lot:
Wouldn’t I look radiant on your weathered deck?Don’t I merit ceramic turquoise vistas
And Whole Foods fertilizer? A daily moment offocus with a 9-pattern garden hose nozzle? Middle kid
within a potted triptych, Hibiscus Child can be a lot to handle.
Yet she speaks truth. She opens up, then shuts, with intention.
She flaunts her coral-hearted needs with a garish audacity I’m notoriously poor at. Like, Love me, you rogue
Lest we both burn up from heatstroke! Love, it’s late. Summer and living are a halogen glare.
But you and I are fading with grace, like two vigilant gardenia shrubs flanking a flugelhorn tree
wrought from rose-gold blossoms. Unmoved by harsh storms, rising seas, or the fractious hurricanes of history.
Drought-proof and gleaming, we rise before dawn, watering in record heat. Me in my cloud- colored robe
misnaming the blossoms in that robe of clouds, hoping to glimpse your smile. Good morning, Fernie Sanders.
Little Pothos Bill. Rise and shine, Morgan Treeman. Little Cactus Everdeen. Sometimes danger invites its own peril. I can see that now.
When things adjust. When the veil between the backyard garden and the inferno is sheer,
you learn to fix your attention on the roots. Love, in this former blaze, this halcyon season, we stand as proof.
_______________________________
From Dear Mothership by Marcus Wicker. © 2026. Published by Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
