I have only occasionally pleased her. At first she admired

the arc of my branches, my clusters of coral buds,

and she likes the word glaucous – my glaucous leaves

the shape of spears, like windows misted in frost.

Neighbours told her how a fire of me gassed a family,

my toxic vapours filling their sleeping lungs.

Now she imagines the cats sharpening their claws on poison,

the dog chewing poisoned sticks, bouquets of poison,

poisoned fingerprints. There is an artfulness to her worry,

a thoroughness I find admirable. It is the same

concentrated effort that pushes forth fists of buds

(worry, I am sure, has its own particular gifts).

I watch as she packs leaves in plastic, soaks

pruning saws in bleach – I have learnt to remain

indifferent to my inaccurate reputation.

I have my froth of blossoms, she has her worry,

and we hold them against ourselves, like knives.