Why Sunday I don’t know, but I swear
that’s when I hear them panting,
their little green tongues hanging out,

especially in summer, when I check on
each of them and carry them to the sink,
place them on the pink plastic mat,

murmuring as if to the cat or dog,
Here you go, pouring water gently
over the violets’ dry soil, loosening it,

noticing as the little monstera,
whose cousins grow huge in Hawaii,
nods a bit, or as the heart-shaped

succulent expands as if on an inhale.
I carry the large cup to the anthurium
in the dining room, pouring a gush

of water around its base like a sudden
swell of rain. And then it hits me
with the force of a flash flood:

We did this together, he and I,
watering the houseplants on a
weekend evening before bed,

standing before the sink,
passing a cup of fresh water
between us,

all of us living things feeling
more hydrated, more alive
in the routine of that

mundane moment
I’d give anything to have
back again.