Artifice by Abigail Rollins I want to know– does the fake plant on my desk suck out the air in the room? If the window is shut, how long until I suffocate completely? It costs to look at it each time I remember the price tag I tore off the bottom, tacky glue clinging to fingers, it resisted my pull to forget. The pot is plastic, the dirt plastic, the fern leaves I saw in childhood cover towering faces, halls of a canyon while my dad bitched, thorn in his side, my sister shoved him in surprise, he jumped out behind a redwood to scare, her shriek and pealing laughter echoed on wet walls, plastic. So tell me, please, what to feel looking at what I know never grew.
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