Orchids

I only just noticed the fabric orchids.
For the past month they’ve graced my desk,
given me time to ease into their petals,
like a skinny dip in early June.
Their printed pollen and stillborn buds
offer a suspended relief, I think.
There’s no rush, no responsibility or dread,
wondering how long they’ll stay alive
before I’m brave enough to pronounce them dead.

A month has passed since
I landed in London Heathrow,
returned to your burning chest,
your voice humming in my neck,
then you hoisted me so high
I could have flown away again.
At your feet the orchids drooped,
and I must have thanked you,
and retold the story of how I killed my cactus
because it’s funnier than the other time:
when this guy and I measured our longevity
with a child’s Christmas tree,
because of course pine survives every season,
and it was symbolic somehow when
the following summer, its shaggy stump withstood
a thousand wailing blows of my heel.

What if these orchids wilt —
they can’t, I know, but you never know.
Because these fabric fragments
are more nourishing than a tree,
lusher than roses,
as alluring as a field
and I want to be enough.
So confront me in half-sleep
and tell me what comes next.