Potential, poetry by Miruna Marin at Spillwords.com
Monika Grabkowska



written by: Miruna Marin



The bush of parsley is limp
and yellow at the edges,
the water in its cup
thick and foul-smelling.
Its brother, the dill,
has sprouted flowers.
Still standing straight
in its cup of water,
Though a sickly shade of green.

Like one of those hero moms
who fight their nasty cold
and look fresh and potent
Every damn day.

The way I can’t.

I’m a half-dried plant
struggling to stay alert
And I can’t do much
to pretend otherwise.
Murkying the air around
with the faint smell of sleep
and discouragement.
Oh, there’s a hint of despair!

Like the greens brought last week
from the market
and never used,
I feel my own potential
wasting away
out of lack of energy.

Sure, I made dill pickles.
I bought too little cucumbers
for the only jar I have.
It was this fast and easy recipe
where you cut the cucumbers
into thin, delicate slices
and drop them in the jar
with salt, dill and vinegar.
So I used a teaspoon of dill for that.
The jar filled up beautifully
with light, round,
miraculously green slices.
But when I shook the jar up
to distribute the salt and vinegar,
they collapsed
into this sorry damp pile
at the lower half of the jar.

They’re tasty,
but pathetic-looking
and half the quantity I expected.

Poor planning.
Not thinking things through.
Not knowing, really, what I’m doing.
Same as everything, writing, life, mothering.

At least maybe I can get a glass half full.
That’s all you need, right?

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