My partner pursues accountability for my word choice
by Eliza Fixler
The desert room of a botanical garden, wall-to-wall with agave, prickly pears, jumping cholla. Beautiful things I cannot touch. Next door, what feels like yesterday, the rainforest room. Humidity, and the smell of coffee beans. An air plant brushed against my cheek. I thumbed a ficus and it curled toward me.
It’s a better beauty here, I think. A dazzling, poky bonanza, bottled essence of sunlight. The plants are alien and imposing. My eyes shine open. Why do I prefer this planet where I do not speak the language? Here, there’s a strict path for visitors, and I must stay on it. If I could just. But no, I love the cactus because it will not have me.
Eliza is a queer poet, therapist and animal enthusiast living in Pittsburgh, PA. She writes, usually, about love, or other things in the world that are proxies for love. Previous works have been published in Querencia Press, GASHER, chaotic merge, and Beaver Magazine. You can follow her writing @elizafixlerpoetry on Bluesky or Instagram.