from the highway nursery, the air jungle-wet and chemical.
I drove it to my sister's to pot it with bagged soil
and installed it at the base of my single kitchen window.
My imaginary garden filled the room as I slept,
but it didn't take root, the leaves turned ashy, brittle.
I slid the window open, wedged the pot against the sill
to trick the bush into believing it was outdoors.
The bottle was an afterthought, wrapped in pink cellophane,
embossed. I bought it for the name, an elegant hyperbole.
I displayed it on the counter, expecting it to light the room
as leaves dropped off the dying plant that half-leaned out the window.
Queen of my castle. The bottle I saved until Christmas, by then
the jasmine was a film of dust, a few scratches on the sill.
