by Maggie Nipps
Maggie Nipps is an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Idaho. Her work appears in Figure 1, Pinwheel, Sporklet, No Contact, Sip Cup, petrichor, and elsewhere. She is the co-founder/co-editor of Afternoon Visitor, a new journal of poetry and hybrid text.
Every Pot Looks Like an Urn
In this light. I’ve been scooping the mold
off my waterlogged snake plant
and replacing it with cinnamon.
The leaves detach, soft
like yellow balloons. I’m not used to
tending something so unwanting
of me. How many balloons can you
count in a hospital? How many
funeral plants have you killed?
My succulent in its nursery pot,
the pinkest leaves already shriveled off.
I reach for a small sponge
on a white dowel that isn’t
there. A haze casts itself
on the formless space.
The succulent turns
to the window, the snake
plant droops in all directions.
This time, she is
alive, pulling secret
film from a slot.
I like that negative
best, the one
at the top. She looks
as I’ve never seen her,
a glossy pill.
I feel a guilty thing.
in my foyer. You
are always appearing.
The insect, an abscess,
a bat on my ledge
curled like a lost sock
Bat no. 1
A bat flies into my apartment while
I’m awake and you’re alive. Another
while I’m asleep and you are dead.
While you’re dying I keep telling you
the same stories. I know there are more and
better ones. I try to write you a letter.
I struggle in doing without generating.
I stay up for days to give boluses of morphine.
I’m surprised you let me watch you die.
I’ve been reading your diary. I stole it
while you were in the hospital. In there, letters
to your dead dad and therapist. My therapist talks a lot
about integrating the grief, but I cannot bear
to take anything else inside me.
I stop eating. My body retaliates
and I shit the bed in your empty house.