Small gnarled roots reach down through mossy baskets, 
suspended in the humid air, and 

I remember my sister’s denim legs stretched over two chairs 
as she kept vigil with me in the ICU. 

Someone told me, or maybe I read somewhere, 
pineapples are bromeliads—

easy to see the family resemblance, as I catch a whiff 
of fruit so tart, it’s sweet. 

Just as whoever loves you will be what you need, when you need it. 
How could I forget this, when 

spiky crowns gleam in December morning sun, their inner leaves 
pink and shiny like a fresh scar? 

Madeleine French

lives in Florida and Virginia with her husband. She is a nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and her work appears in Gone Lawn, Identity Theory, The Madrigal, ONE ART, Reverie Magazine, San Antonio Review, Susurrus, and Thimble Literary Magazine, among others. She is working on a full-length poetry collection.

You may find her on Bluesky: madeleinepoet.bsky.social