My name is proficient, businesslike.
It has the ability to be punctual.
It requires little effort.
Yet when sighed in pleasure, or called in happiness,
My ears gloss over the familiar corners of my identity
And turn my name into a new conglomeration
Composed of unfamiliar vowels and consonants.
I cannot hear my name spoken in joy.
It sounds foreign, a strange sound of exaltation.
That surely cannot be my name.
You cannot be referring to me.
That would mean that my name has other capabilities
Beyond my standard identifiers.
Who is this person you speak of?
Decay has never smelled so sweet.
Bury my nose in the bag of “leaf soil”
And inhale deeply
Breathing in microbes, rot, and
The promise of roots writhing in happiness.
Just give me the dirt
Under my nail beds, into my pores
And wrap me in that rich smell of death offering life.
My euphoria easily bests
The pleasure I felt at buying the plant in the first place,
Though there is the secondary joy
Of realizing that I’ve made both our days
With a single purchase.