It is sometimes mistaken for
the crown of thorns.
Rooted in a two gallon pot,
the mottled spurge—
false cactus, candelabra plant,
hat rack cactus,
dragon bones—
thirty-five years ago was
one small stalk.
Now it’s man-tall, a dozen
bunched, angled,
and deeply scalloped branches
with black thorns.
It does not flower in captivity.
Its acrid milk
sap is slightly poisonous. In India
they brew up a hot jam to purge
rheumatism.
It rots in much water, thrives
on light reflected
off pale walls.
Cut and pot a limb, in a year
it will look exactly like the mother
plant: how we render it eternal.
