In Bloom

I water the plants
along the windowsill,
a sickly green thyme plant,
bamboo and a
cactus with a red flower.

The cactus will die soon,
and I reach my fingers
out to brush the spines,
and my reflection in the glass
looks sad.

My mother once had a 
greenhouse,
and tended it in big sweaters
in January.
Her cacti grew
tall and thin,
higher than my tiny
form.
I remember holding my hand to
its stalk,
wanting for the sweet-smelling
flowers it would bloom out
in the dog days of summer.

A ruddy hand covered in porcupine
like quills. And I sat on the closed toilet
lid while my mother picked each spine out
with tweezers,
and I cried as she cooed
and told me that sometimes what
we love can hurt us.

I put my finger to the dying cactus
in my windowsill.
The quick pulse of pain
numbs slowly,
and I know now,
as your car pulls into the drive,
what we love,
can sometimes hurt us.