I think, if I were a houseplant,
I would not mind even when
I am carelessly pruned
by callous hands:
my tender stigma
severed or my calyx bruised.

I would accommodate my pot,
grow a whirlpool of roots,
content to sit in my spot
in the kitchen windowsill,
the stoop by the street,
or the shelf by the bed,
without dissent.
I would not whine at pests
or lack of light.

Sometimes, I think it might be nice
to be a croton or a succulent:
to never have a thought in my head
or a mouth with which to speak it.