Prickly

She sat on the porch steps
watching people pass by, chewing her lip,
wishing for a smoke.
I used to wonder what she’d look like smiling
and when I finally saw it, it was terrifying.
A manic ode to silent films, all in her eyes.
She was usually alone
but I suspect
she kept ashes of her dearest enemies
she’d cursed and swept up in her vacuum.
It was always a full canister.
“I have unsuccessfully tried
to mother a cactus,” she once told me,
with a knowing look.
There were clumsy attempts at hugs
but they were always met with mockery,
making me feel a clumsy giant
in her Lilliputian view. I can almost laugh now
but my heart still catches in my throat
when I see a cactus in bloom.