Orchids

My mother always checks on her orchids,
yet dozens have died by her hand.
She blames the negative energy blanketing the house,
the orchids breathe it in, those
asphyxiating arguments, and
die the cruelest deaths.

A collection of orchids all barren and stooped,
from every corner of the world, share our space.
She absentmindedly waters them anyway,
leaves them outside to bake in the sun,
hoping by some miracle they’ll bloom again
under her patient care.

Those naive flowers that decorate the living room,
are jailed within glimmering ceramic pots.
When our fights happen, we catch them in the corners of our eyes,
the orchid’s petals trembling from the echoes of our voices,
their faces bright and livid, delicate lips pulled back into a snarl.

They would writhe in agony,
watching us rip the atmosphere to pieces with our words.

The umbilical cord, like the tendrils stemming from their soil,
connect and pull me back into my mother’s embrace.
She’d cry, the tears pooling under her hollowed eyes,
which could water all the orchids of a lifetime.
She holds me with patient care, I lay limp
and silent.

The orchids finally succumbed to the struggle,
their stunning hues now a bitter brown,
their lush petals now limp, their proud heads bowed low,
crushed from holding up our sky.

---

---