Zebra haworthia

I was washing pollen off my face, beside the basin
the Zebra succulent you gave me, medusa bold

and creaturely with tactile stripes. I had nearly killed it
on the hot window-sill. When its parched tongues

creased I portered it about the house in search of home.
Under the cloudless skylight it yells up to the sky

– it lives well. I love summer evenings like this,
the air the same temperature as my skin, effortless

in the lungs and the world an open window. Distant
outbreath of cars travelling home. Nearby the pond

aerating. I’m in the present, in the garden, pending
your arrival laden with groceries, burdened with news.

Is it too early in the evening to be talking about love?
This afternoon I unchoked the shaggy border,

from its purple choir, individual notes of salvia,
lavender, were whittled out of weeds, the agapanthus

onion-dome buds are opening soon. I also report
the Zebra plant has launched a thin, green,

flowering wand, finer than coat-hanger wire, half
a metre of hockey-stick trajectory, right over

the bath. I have read they must feel safe to be this
optimistic. If it were describing a long orbital return

to its mother-earth, it has survived the dark side,
has made that crucial swerve, reset the coordinates.

‘Zebra haworthia’ was third prize winner Troubadour International Poetry Prize 2023 judged by Mona Arshi and Tom Sleigh and is also published on their website with judges report. http://www.coffeehousepoetry.org/poems/troubadour-international-poetry-prize-2023.

Jane Wilkinson’s first collection is Eve Said: Live Canon (July 2023) https://www.livecanon.co.uk/store/product/eve-said-by-jane-wilkinson.

Insta @janemccarthywilkinson.