Dynasty

I talk to the orchids on my kitchen Counter most days—ask forgiveness of them— Understand they are lost and far from home And alone in alien soil with smells Of meat in their stamens and dogs barking And timers going off—I do my best To make my world a jungle where they grow Their pale flowers and die warm in the steam Coming off kettles and dinner plates. I can’t look at anything anymore Without seeing the bones under the skin— The lips of the ventriloquist moving— The hunger in everything wants out— Held hostage to the coming bite— I place the fallen brown petals in the unmarked Grave of my poem where no one can disturb The mad flowers of the exiled king.