Dust makes a soft lens over his window.
The green leaves wilt in all directions,
allowing the small pink blooms to stand
center stage within the fading sunlight.
My lover, who is merely a man I’ll forget
tomorrow, points to the orchid on his
windowsill, his voice all honey and pride
at the slow unfurling of creation. When I
lean close, I can peer through the tender
flesh of each leaf, see the intricate veins
and pores of the flowering miracle.
We go back to bed, and I know I am dying.
I don’t tell him this, because I think he knows, too.
We all are, all men like us. All bodies held
in this push and pull against the past.
Death unrolls its tongue around us, waits
patiently like a flower holding out for spring.
Under the January sundown, I pretend my body isn’t sinking.
I am rising, expanding, blooming, even.
We close our eyes, and the grief is warm
like a pool of light, the pool of light that
allows an orchid to unfold in the impossible silence
of winter. My fingers, his hair, the smooth
hollow of his clavicle where sweat gathers
like rain in a water lily; even grief can lead us
to miraculous circumstance.