Air Root
Making roots in the bulbous chambers of reddened alveoli
It's a sickly orchid, pulled from the streets of Moyobamba
Column of its flower filled with tear drops from the river Mayo
Now it sings with the remnants of names
LyndsieLyndsieJosephJoseph
Laws govern the hosts of flower buds
Sepal foliage full of outright unintentional greenery
What bee or butterfly or gnat courts pollen trapped in a vacuum
What hummingbird or bat gains accolades in encircling the impossible
What collector risks life and imprisonment for plants that smell like vanilla
There is a weed in the pit of my lungs, shaped like the latin word for common and ordinary
Its stem is a wrist worth holding and adorned with cattleya corsage
Its petals are palms where effigies are sheltered
Its labellum is a lip, where apologies are the smallest words
When sighs are ineffectual
I will breathe
1,2,3
I can feel the roots in my knuckles
originally published on cowbird.com