I go to the conservatory

because it is warm, because it is February

and I’ve forgotten how

to walk through this city

with head lifted above ground

‍

Wandering through the glass house I marvel

at this controlled utopia: pomelos, larger

than my hands, ripen lustily on flimsy branches;

ferns, misted twice a day, thrive

inside the cracking mortar of the walls

‍

I am guilty of the same greediness, glutton

for what the world will not give me back: the desert

I was born in and never saw again, my mother’s face

in a casket framed in flowers from a refrigerated case

sparse with stock and baby’s breath

‍

Some would say this is evidence of flourishing:

the crown-of-thorns blooming red to match

the exit sign, deracinated cacti propped up

against pipes, twist-tied to ductwork

keeps them growing toward the light