Preserving jars filled to the brim
refract the living room window's

light in fuchsia and absinthe bows
across the late afternoon wall.

Skewered with toothpicks
and balanced in their simple

womb of tap-water and sun
two avocado stones compete.

Whiteboard pen marks my name
on one jar, yours on the other.

We are willing to wait months
for roots, hoping to see a shoot

push through the blackened pits
eventually. I know this climate

won't allow tropical trees to mature
let alone fruit. All I hope for is

proof that growth is often logical;
a stalk of life can be controlled.

In their shadow, our toothpicks
look like skeletal hands, held.

Extract from Our Effects

Amy Brown