page 136

Elena Knox

Hydroponics

I keep your hands on my windowsill.
Potted, cut off at the wrists, and they grow.
They are the most gentle hands I know.
Spring-cleaning the house, I still find solace
in their unassuming presence:
stable, going their way
about a grey photosynthesis
they are money-spiders, grey and gorgeous
grotesque and graceful. I remember when they had an owner.

Found them in a back room
and brought them out again into sunlight.
Ornamental, free of weeds,
I think they are happy.
I think, when I am not at home, they sign to the sky.
And I never forget
I will never forget
to leave the window open.

I am sorry
I am sorry
I had to keep a cutting.