CACTUS
Abby Sykes

It was on an average day
That I purchased a tiny cactus
With a little pink flower on it’s pointy head
And set it on my window sill.
In its place, it could soak up the barely-warm rays of sun
That found their way into my home
And also manage to survey the prairie of my room.
It might’ve, now that I think about it,
Had trouble seeing over the top of my bed.
But it could most definitely view the many hours
And many days
I spent perched on that same bed
Wondering if anyone would miss me
If I opened the window and stepped over it
And took off down the street,
My feet pounding against the pavement
In the same way that the hooves
Of a frightened gazelle
might beat the grass of the savannah flat.
The cactus could mostly definitely see me
Each night when I pulled an index card
From my nightstand,
And wrote one thing that made me unhappy on it,
Then crumbled it up and threw it away.
The cactus might’ve thought to itself,
“She’s learning to love herself,”
But not one single index card
Changed my mind.
The cactus definitely witness the hand
That curled over my alarm clock in anger
And smashed it against the wall.
The force of the clock breaking,
In the way that an earthquake sinks a building,
Sent the cactus onto it’s side, spilling particles of dirt
Like constellations
Off of the windowsill and onto the carpet.
I’m sure the cactus saw me press my head
Between two of the pillows on my bed
In the dark of the night
Pretending I was dunking my head beneath the ocean
To muffle the voices in the hallway that kept getting louder.
The first time I held a razor in my hand
Ready to go -
I know the cactus heard my pitiful attempt to keep my cries silent.
But because the cactus couldn’t manage to stretch it’s neck
Above the horizon that the blankets on my bed made
It probably didn’t know that I spent thirty minutes
Hiding behind the accordion door
Of my closet.
Did it see me get yelled at
Or interrogated for the truth that nobody would listen to
Anyway.
Did it see me return home again and again
Each time a little more lost than before -
That melancholy emptiness in my pupils
That had become familiar to me at too young an age?
Did it notice when I stopped eating
Because I didn’t want to have to venture out
Into the void of my house
And risk what hope was left weighing my chest down
Just to get some food?
Did it watch me
Put on makeup
Many times each morning
So that I could get the look that my perfectly
Cover up the last real things about me?
And could that cactus hear the music
That I blasted as loud as I knew how
Through my headphones -
A C Sharp and minor chord that knew me better
Than I knew myself.
The day that I put myself to work
Furiously shoving the necessities
Into a duffle bag,
Forcing myself to leave behind items I loved
For items I should have
Because I didn’t have enough room -
Did it ponder the course of my actions?
Did it miss it’s windowsill when I picked it up
In my left hand
As a last minute thought
And took it with me
Never to return?
It was an average day that I took off down the road
With my cactus in my hand
Leaving behind everything but myself.
You can’t ever run away from yourself.

She tends her cactus garden,
beads of perspiration,
works with a maniacal absorption.

One of many visitors she receives
yet looking at each other's eyes
dawned this quick realization;
similar maniacal obsession and passion.

A tornado she was, self created,
in her swirl uprooted
many huge trees, even tombstones
by the sheer force unleashed,
with her poetic flourish.

Love of a crazy woman
with effervescent creative  surge,
is a magical portion
brewed by a witch ,
in her forbidden rituals, night after dark night.

Injured by conjugal lust, unrequited
prompted to walk the garden path
holding hands of lovers, one after the other,
who took her to wilderness, deeper and deeper
and at the end to a blind alley,
life was a tribal dance,
from where return was impossible.
She never had to apologize to her mate,
who for all the world to see, remained  with her
till he went behind the curtain.

Imagine a life, a walk
through a cactus garden,where sharp thorns would nip,
searing pain and bleeding has its moments of exhilaration.
Life pulsated wildly for her on such notions,
(There were many who walked with her for each adventure)

They met, poetry flowed like wine,
she had a rare warmth seen in women of such creative combinations,
she feared nothing, but  her truth made many squirm.
Midnight dances of her and her friends gypsy bunch,
attained such fame.But all ended in a great  betrayal,
she was deep down a naive woman,
craving for love, to immerse in it.

On occasions she would change identities
at will, she was one but many
there wasn't any one like her before or after.
They would walk through the witch's cactus patch,
somnambulists reciting poems,
when they are together, in private,
cactus spine criss- crossed his skin
her nail wrote poems on the back
of the lover of the moment,
each one bled like soldiers in combat.

One monsoon night brought
everything to an end,
the cactus garden was trampled by
big grey wolves, the journey
met with an abrupt end.

What is she, cactus herself,
vampire, witch, lover indefatigable,
with the heart of a lion?
Erotomaniacal  poetic surge,
yet a fantasy in flesh and blood?

**They buried her
in a cactus garden away from town
not even ten people arrived to mourn,
not even all her lovers, had time that afternoon.
Her songs of pain, pierced hearts and they
still shed tears,
cactus garden, it was---
the metaphor perfected by her life and death.