Kechil Kirkham most recently

Murder on the Mountain

I crushed the orchid that held the last droplet of my blood.
Stamped on by a left foot insistent on its right.
See how its petals now splattered with mud
lie like a dead man shot in the road
how its delicate leaves ooze green
through broken cell walls
its proud stem snapped
that entrancing fragrance, rare and sublime
hovering in the air like a filigree ghost.

That was the zenith of all creation
the most perfect orchid of all
with its velvet lark’s tongue
those tiny tiny spots of purple-brown
drawing the eye down its throat
of gorgeous regal vermillion.

It will never flower again, its head
arching fabulously over the ferns below
like a camp queen at a gay ball
teetering on platform shoes.
Gone with its Zen perfection
its orchid-ness.

Gone, and soon to follow the ferns that quivered below
and the grassy bank,
the pine trees, and before too long
even the mountain
will merge with the frothing, broiling sea
heaving with icebergs
melted by the sun.

That too will become dwarf, giant, supernova,
and beyond the time of days
will turn into something we have no name for yet.
Then, perhaps, can I be forgiven
and until that time have at least
something to look forward to.


Orchidectomy

My fingers brush the petals of the last orchid on earth,
feeling the narrow stalk, so breakable
trembling beneath my tips,
its head bowing softly like a servant.
I can almost hear it whisper,
pleading for clemency
lifting its head to bear its throat
of gorgeous, regal vermillion.
It gives up its fragrance to me with shameless grace,
a naked ballet dancer pirouetting for her life.

It does not know it is the last of its kind,
nor perceive the power I hold,
as my grip tightens around the fragile stem.

I could pluck this one,
wrench it right out of its socket of moss,
were it not for the green blood pushing through my veins
and the promise of so many tomorrows
hanging like a scented question mark in the air.

November 2006