Taylor Graham The Plant While Dame Kiri soars her bright articulated vowels from your CD player, the only green in your life, the philodendron, thrusts against its pot – rough clay molded by indigenous fingers which you dickered down your last trip, caught on film, the best shot (two native girls with unintelligible smiles) enlarged on your wall behind that potted plant whose roots have finally cracked the ethnic clay, forcing you to release it still clinging to its dirt – such a mess of coiled roots pushing any way a dumb plant knows. No wonder it’s a lower life- form. Nothing but chlorophyll and dark wordless thrusting toward light.

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