I was. A succulent once for Halloween.
2 dozen green balloons fastened to my mustard-
colored turtleneck. My pot: a terra-cotta
miniskirt. Knit brown tights my dark roots. Black
boots. Talk to me in all caps scrawled on a Post-
it note pinned to my chest. None of this ever
happened. None of it. I was home on the couch
in my Walmart pajama bottoms eating half
a bag of Baby Ruths. The other half
I gave to 3 teenagers dressed up as 3
teenagers who rang the bell at 9 PM. But, wait,
where is my husband? Am I single now?
And childless? I swung a plastic watering can
by its thick curved handle at my hips, my phone
and my ID and a stick of medicated Blistex
clattering around in its dark well as I walked
the streets of Cleveland. Or someplace else I’ve never
been. Tiny haloed ghosts scuttled across
manicured front lawns, flashing in and out
of the night’s soft shadows. I can still see them—
though I’m tripping now on the unravelling
hem of Snow White’s yellow satin gown
and falling behind. Or I’ve traded my feathered
fairy wings for my brother’s silver spray-painted
dryer-vent robot arms and now we are both
confused and confusing. Or I am standing
stiff-shouldered at the bottom of the driveway,
waiting with the other weary parents.
Or maybe I’m the old raccoon slipping
down, unseen, behind the rusted sewer
grate at the curb. Or the darkest house
in the neighborhood. The blank stare
of its cold windows. An absence of light.