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ORCHID FOOD ❋ Gabrielle Marceau

The Tulips
know I hate them – waited until
I was out to leak and droop and die
all over my books.

A slip of hard dark – then gash red – that was them
talking chemicals last night.

A flower is an animal in reverse –
brain on the bottom, sex organ on top
(tonight he helped me pull off my tights,
my feet in the air).

Fuck those laughing Tulips.
I know they hear me in the kitchen
fumbling around for his glass of water –

they can tell what’s really going on
when I slither back into bed.

But the Orchids are just arching their backs – me, me, me

Folded up – a purple labellum
idling on white sheets.

Plants are alive
their limbs touch the air
and are changed.

Those Orchids are in a bad state –
twisted towards and away from
the window –

they have to listen all night,
to our chemical talk.

I can’t help that my limbs touch his air
and are changed.

We all have to eat:
sometimes he gets full up and snaps
like a cold stem

and in the morning
sticking out my ass – me, me, me

The Tulips say –