Orchid

by Jillian Mae Lee

Walking in the autumn fields, the wind pricks my skin

because I think I hear your name.

A name like old leather, ragged armchairs, holey socks,

grapefruit smiles, fallen petals on the floor.

I’ll keep your name in pockets, the corners of my mouth,

hidden in my chest, stuck against my lungs.

This tender torment happens

when I dream of you at the dinner table.

Spring will come, the blossoms sprout

from my ribs. I feel my heart twist

with every sunrise, catching light like memories

in a shoebox or a Kodak roll.