Pleuropulmonary Blastoma

The mud-suck

of a sandal caught

as I stomp the soaked

earth around a hibiscus

teetering, and we already knew

it was just for this summer,

because we can’t have

live plants indoors with

a sick kid. I go out

between storm-waves

to jam my heel down

next to its pencil-thin trunk

again, cussing that one

vibrant blossom to keep it

up. It’s clearly meant

for a different air than soybeans

and cornfields. I can’t believe

it pulled the nutrients for that deep

of red, when the cashier said

not to expect much if we planted

it. It can’t survive our winter.

And all the rain this year, turning

every hard surface to muck. I gather

clumps of upturned clods

from here. Type three. Stage

three. Pray for the bones

and the brain.