she sits very straight in a gray metal chair
hands nestled together the way puppies sleep
she asks me again
if I’ve watered the hellebores or if I’ve forgotten
they have to be watered every three days
and the hellebores sit in a row in the garden
they’re green I tell her
green like the gowns men wear in the halls
I never told her a boy in Sunday School
chased me around the church parking lot
chased me and tripped me
I fell and he kissed me
I never told her because she would’ve said
you shouldn’t let boys chase you my dear
a nurse comes in with a blood pressure cuff
she has one of those first names that sounds like a last
and smells as fresh as a new bar of soap
according to legend King Argos’ daughters
ran mad through the streets
and were cured by a tincture of hellebore petals
she sits very straight in an old metal chair
her hands are resting like moths on a window
Alexander the Great supposedly died
after drinking a wine made of hellebore flowers
and I never told her
that nice old man who taught Sunday School
put his hand up my skirt
she would’ve said
you ought not to let men do that my dear
and she tells the nurse that I have a black thumb
that I can kill flowers made out of silk
the nurse with a first name that sounds like a last
smiles as if I were a passing remark
and the hellebores sit in a row in the garden
curled and brown like a nice boy’s hair
but I tell her they’re green like the men in the halls
who are waiting for pills that will murder their thoughts.