The Decorative Airport Fern Is Not What It Pretends to Be

Jennifer L. Knox

and it takes me a triple-take to realize it's scanning
me, or something near my ear—that must be it. No plant’s 
ever complimented my perfume—wait—there it goes 
again. Did you see that? [Time passes, drinks] "Sure, I 
remember when I thought you were a fern but you were!
Who could blame me?" I tell the what’s now a magnificent
purple tetrahedron, eggplant-sized cilia straining at its corners, just 
a hint of ferniness remains in its fingertips—enough to blush. 
We hug goodbye. The scent of flowers lingers around me 
the next day. Flying home, a decorative airport fern that really 
is a decorative airport fern says, "You smell nice." I don’t 
believe it, but it's still a happy
ending.

Prayer of the Shy Forest

As a child, when I closed my eyes to pray I saw a hissing
wall of TV snow. The tighter I closed them, the harder it
hissed. A song with two notes. AH ee AH ee AH ee AH . . .
But I kept coming back, like I kept playing, I know you
are but what am I? with my older brother who never lost
because, “I’m not your real brother, dork.” Kept coming

Jennifer L. Knox

2023

Hive Minds

Riding in the car with my mother, I never graduated from the back seat to the front. Whenever I tried to climbing in next to her (“This is stupid—I’m riding up front”) she’d howl and swipe at me until I caved. That was how she defended her space. We drove around like that until I got my driver’s license: us two, locked in the dust-mote mottled skies of our own minds, counting things. Me: syllables and the shadows of telephone poles falling across the car. Her: I don’t know.

Jennifer L. Knox

2017

The Cliffs Above Oswald

New fronds unfurl from the joints 
of older ones, like fists slow to open
in forgiveness but will inevitably in 
forgetfulness—that kind of newness green 

as the green of new ferns snaking fast 
up the old hosts’ throats turning brown 
beneath the ever-creep without a sound (to us—
all we hear’s waves). The waist-high bramble 

we’re wading through, the thorn sea that has
swallowed us—with its endless view of day's 
end/night's beginning—seems to seal up 
behind us as we struggle by.

Jennifer L. Knox

2017

Poems

The Decorative Airport Fern Is Not What It Pretends to Be

More by this poet

Prayer of the Shy Forest

Hive Minds

The Cliffs Above Oswald

Poems

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The Decorative Airport Fern Is Not What It Pretends to Be

More by this poet

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