Emily Aviles


The carcass of my succulent grandchild is haunting me
I planted it in the bush, in the hedge; it´s mother soon to follow
Is insanity watering something that is already dead
Leaning over, pale, with leaves that shrivel like dirty slippers
I move the pot like a sundial
It reaches my desk in the afternoon, and I wonder
If 2pm has some significance for mercy

Marylily is not just a plant
She is the story of a friend lost to the bush, to the hedge,
Unrecognizable from the bedroom window
Calling me, guilty, like a murderer who leaves
Button downs hanging from the line

Like she is coming back to take them down
Put one on, and mull about in the garden
I ask myself if love gets planted, if there is any use
In watering it anymore
I try not to look at that dark space between the leaves,
Where it accuses me
And sits with all the other green I buried

I try to render sunlight from the vines she sews
And realize the memories are shadows
And the love,
I don´t know if it grows
But it goes, somewhere