When we move from Texas to New York,
my mother’s smile slowly wilts. But she’s
smart and plucks it from her face before
my father can see.   
    
Do you know why I agreed to uproot myself?
My mother promised me a garden of my own.
My father allowed me one windowsill ***.

Now, I tear my hair out when I’m all alone.
Maybe if I plant it, a better me will spring up
like Venus from the water. For, as I am now,
I am no goddess.

My mother doesn’t stop me, only takes me
by the hand to walk through the city. Her face
is mottled purple and blue in the bright lights.

Plants can’t cry, you know. But they can bruise.
My mother watches videos of her and my father
when they were young. She asks: “Do you love me?"
and he laughs.