Poem: The Loneliness of the Orchid

cattleya-orchid.thumbnailWhen you walk into a room, the dining room let’s say for the sake of useful metaphor, her solitude is silent, screaming mutely and crying in the quiet.

The loneliness of the orchid.

The stillness of the table. The gentle droop, a swan’s neck, a dancer’s bow to the enveloping sound of love.

Cursed with wakefulness, the flowers cannot sleep. The talking goes on and then some more, shuffling the proper order of things. Renovating the piquant plan that our unseen hand once imagined in a fever fit. Ceaselessly yearning for light and the enveloping sound of love.

We can’t know her any more than ourselves. She’s white and frail and open, vulnerable to cold and cruelty. Her language is a mystery.

We can feel her. She is lonely.

You had no sister, only promises. And when the end came, messy and unhappy and not at all how you would have scripted your exit, there was no clapping, no sound of enveloping love.

They put you on a table, and you waited for the loneliness to finish.

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