Orchids when the moon

Nancy Harris Calman

The male sends
on invisible roads
to the female
purple, raw

this ruffle
soundless around the stem

and then
it takes years to know:
the male forgets, is pressed
between the pages of a book
or carried down the aisle on a satin arm.

And she sits, knowing
something happened:
petals swell: colors
like fireworks, expensive and fast.

Then the petals fall into a little pile.
The moon opens.
The petals shine.


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