Failure to Thrive

How can a vine thrive—

groping blind along the trellis,

starved for a flicker of sun

in this endless dusk?

It writhes tendrils

into dust-cracked earth,

thirsty for dew

in a desert you once called Eden.

It crawls, belly to soil,

as you spit on it

and name its struggle sloth.

“What happened to you?” you ask—

forgetting the seed you 

pulped, the shelter you

scattered, the light you

withheld.

Now it melts—

shriveled, withered,

its belly bloated with emptiness,

a husk of what might have blossomed

from a cradle of green.

And still you sneer:

“This is what you’ve become.”

Would you say the same

to a baby you never held,

never fed,

never loved—

wondering why she failed to thrive?

But even a child,

abandoned and alone—

who’s never supped the milk of life

or felt rain trace

her downy cheeks—

still lifts her arms,

instinct tugging her

toward the faintest facsimile of love.

She mistakes the sandstorm’s sting

for golden shimmer in the haze—

and confuses salvation

with treacle-laced venom—

sweet on the tongue,

searing the throat. 

For vines and children raised in drought,

even a poison oasis

tastes sweet enough to gulp.