Poetry
Pothos
Donald Sellitti
issue six
My mother’s pothos swam in saucers
meant for teacups, drowning slowly
in her care.
Overwatered, overfed, they drooped
on shores of crusted plant food
lining stagnant pools.
Leaves turned yellow and curled
upon themselves like petals,
feigning flowers in the twilit room.
Much luckier, her plastic plants
jammed into dust dry soil
beneath the arborvitae.
Unaffected by the vagaries
of watering and sunlight,
they thrived.
About the Author
Donald Sellitti was a scientist/educator at a Federal medical school before turning to poetry following his retirement. His publications in medical journals such as Cancer Research and Oncology Letters have been succeeded by publications in a number of more amusingly titled journals, including The Alchemy Spoon, Door is A Jar, Gyroscope Review and Rat’s Ass Review, which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize.
Leave a Reply