A Mother of Thousands
When the storm is over, I step out on the patio
It lies crushed in shards of clay, our Mexican grill
Peeking up from the debris, blue-green lance-shaped leaves
Each edged with uncountable baby plantlets
Known as the mother of thousands, the succulent
Keeps on giving. Known also as the devil’s
Backbone and the alligator plant, both apt
Names for my outrage at losing my chiminea
The babies take root while attached to the mother
They thrive with little care and no attention
Undemanding, my own soil dry, I cling
To another taking root in their being
Watering and feeding while avoiding my own
The worry—do they cling from my sustenance
Or are the roots deeper—akin to the backbone
Highly invasive in Florida where I live
When I lean in closer, what I believed to be one way
Where I feared I had forced the union causing resentment
The truth, the mother of thousands was herself trapped
By her own giving, by attachments of her own making.
Trish McDonald
Every time I go outside there are ten more Mother plants. And yes, they’re invasive but incredibly beautiful to grow which takes nothing, no watering, no nutrients, they just pop up wherever they like. My kind of plants.
The poem above was created in Writing in the Dark on Substack with Jeannine Ouellette in a series titled “desire.” We were to retrieve a memory of something nonhuman that stopped you—made you realize that you were not exactly who you thought you were, but were instead something more, someone who could expand beyond your own outlines. Voila— A Mother of Thousands!
Sure it’s grandiose but in Jeannine’s class you never know where you’ll end up. Have you ever been stopped cold by something of beauty so staggering you came to a standstill and just gaped? A bush, flower, or a tiny creature? Let me know in the COMMENTS—it’s a chance for me to hear from you and keeps us connected.
Thanks for encouraging my writing.
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