Green Paranoia

I hear my plants whisper before I
fall to sleep– wet and wormy words
like cabbage, intestine, brood, betray.
I give them blue, red and violet light
without thanks, and they only show
their waxiness when they want food
or tilt into nemesis sunlight. They are
the house cats of the botanical world–
ungrateful but helpless on their own.

Sometimes in the morning from my
bed I'm sure they hold each other's
leaves like hands, wishing their roots
could bind together in conspiracy or
their stems make love. Some vine
down as if I don't see them, snagging
into the carpet, while others darken
the room’s corners like an anti-Eden--
defiance to me their mammalian maker.