the maiden

the life blood in me dries up

in my spot on the mantle

but I guess she puts me here

because the quality of sun

is correct—she does not think

of the air vents above,

in this way she is like a bull

my arms are so thin they shake

she likes me best

of all the houseplants

because my shaking seems

most alive

she comes to inspect

the baby green shoots

but there are times I think

she wants me to die

when the decided day to water

passes she looks at me

tuesday wednesday thursday friday

surprised I am still waving

my fried yellow leaves;

some days entering another room

she enters June

goes through

the door to paris

Christine Kwon writes poetry and plays with cats in New Orleans.