The Orchid’s Hunger

Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide—  

her mouth, a monsoon, hymns the altar of my hips.  

Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.  

We harmonize in rot, two parasite brides—  

her tongue, moonlight, laps my bark’s eclipse.  

Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide,  

though thorns pierce our palms (we clutch, deranged, we lied).  

Her breath, a serpent, hisses through my lips:  

Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.  

My spine, a stalk; her teeth strip back the rind.  

She peels me raw—a lyre of nerves, unzipped.  

Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide—  

each gasp, a flood; each bruise, a psalm denied.  

We drown in mud, the earth a sloppy kiss of silt.  

Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.  

The hollow stalk still sings the storm’s refrain—  

But hunger’s her religion. I’m her crypt.  

Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide.  

Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.