LEAH MUELLER
NOVEMBER 11, 2022
Survivor
Sometimes, the plant
sends flowers into space:
stems thick as garden hoses,
blooms a cluster of softballs.
Perhaps every third decade,
though romantics say one hundred.
The century plant invites
you inside, appears to offer succor
within an artillery of spines.
Just another bad deal
in the desert: you were too
transfixed with the blossom.
2020 traded mold for dust
as headlines shrilled.
You dreamed of Wisconsin.
You dreamed of a beach fire.
You dreamed of automobiles,
while your husband lay
beside you: his diminished
body a collapsing stalk,
as yours will be someday.
Go on. You might
bloom twice in eighty years.
Hold water inside.
Thrust yourself into the earth
and refuse to move.
Push your floret upwards.
Spread wide, but make certain
your tips are covered with needles.
Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She is a 2022 nominee for Best of the Net. Her flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" appears in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press' "Best Small Fictions" anthology. Website: www.leahmueller.org.