Botany is a poem about people, a reflection on how impossible it often is to understand them.
I asked my therapist what it means if one day one friend stops talking to you and the other never stops ringing even though nothing happened. Perhaps I should have pulled in a non-incident or spun a web or better still, quizzed her on why precisely she keeps pointing out the strangeness of people, the hues and intricacies she learned about when first studying botany at college. Take Ivy, for example, she explains, to some walls, it sticks, to others, it doesn’t. Or even the Venus Fly Trap, she continues, now all enthused, some flies, it simply won’t swallow. So, you see, people are strange, she concludes as she looks at the wall clock. At this point, she picks up her flower bible. Bring it back to me next week, she says.