I learned flowers from my mother.
Amaryllis. Agapanthus. Impatiens. Lobelia.
I learned the names, the colors, annuals and perennials,
and to water the dirt and not the bloom.
She showed me how to take care of them
but
I didn’t really learn.

I only learned the names. Marigold. Iris. Snapdragon.
I learned not to touch the Oleander.

I learned stamens, anthers, and pistils too,
and that flowers can be male or female
but some are both, with all the parts
and don’t need anybody.
I didn’t learn that from my mother, though.
I read it in a book
again and again.

Now that I’m grown,
the flowers all seem smaller
and I can’t keep plants alive. On my watch,
succulents shrivel, or they rot. Bamboo yellows overnight.
Only Orchids,
with their glass-blown perfection,
their quiet thirst for one ice cube at a time,
ever stand a chance.