Abbie Kiefer’s work is forthcoming or has appeared in Arts & Letters, The Cincinnati Review, Hobart, Spoon River Poetry Review, and other places. She is a reader for The Adroit Journal and lives in New Hampshire.
My azaleas go fleshy, fruiting
fat, waxed lobes. I grudge them credit
for ambition but the guide says gall,
says bleach the clippers and burn
the harvest. So sweat-salted,
welted by the want
of mosquitoes, I tend the shrubs
urged by the nursery,
by the man who loaded
my car with the pots: thirsty dirt,
sprawled branches, fuchsia blooms
like wide-thrown maws.
I just wanted some plants
that wouldn’t wane in shade,
generous enough
to hide the foundation. To make it look
like my house just hovers.
Like if it desired, it could float right off.