Greenhouse Effect

Our new house. A bargain. Huge yard
for a garden. We love the attached greenhouse.
Neighbor Mary Ann visits first.

Her red house hides behind clumps
of fiery autumn foliage. Her welcome
casserole is tasty, but Don hates green beans.

I love adding new people, Mary Ann says.
She offers greenhouse advice.
After first snowfall, start seeds.

Cole crops thrive like you’re a plant wizard.
Broccoli, brussels sprouts, cabbage.
Cole crops? My brown thumb never knew.

Mary Ann helps me pore over websites,
order seed catalogs, flats and cell trays,
beds for seedlings. Rich potting soil

like chocolate cake mix. I parcel exact
amounts into each square, gently press
every seed into its soil cushion.

December chills but lush, lemony sunlight
fills the greenhouse, magnifying tiny stem hairs.
Sugar snap peas squirm into my dreams.

Each morning, I water. Moisture seeps into
roots through capillary mats, gifts from
Mary Ann. Zinnias lift frilly skirts.
Marigolds drink gem-like droplets.

In March, woodsmoke from a balky
fireplace clogs my lungs. Doctors
say it’s a stubborn pneumonia.

Stay in the greenhouse, Mary Ann says.
I’ll send help. Sleet rattles the taut plastic
roof. I’m raspy, gasping for air.
No answer from Don at the office.

Mary Ann brings me Heart of Darkness.

I set up a folding chair. Smoke threads up
between pebbles on the greenhouse drain.
I feel a straw-like tendril in my hair.

Green shoots droop. Tender basil leaves
collapse into pungent corruption.
For the first time, I notice the drain’s sluice
holes shaped like demon eyes and fangs.

I turn a page. Tiny antennae poke up
through the drain. Insect eyes bulge
as some creature waits with a stinger,
a green finger of toxic chlorophyll.