ORCHIDS ARE SPROUTING FROM THE FLOORBOARDS
KAVEH AKBAR
First published in The Journal
Orchids are sprouting from the floorboards.
Orchids are gushing out from the faucets.
The cat mews orchids from his mouth.
His whiskers are also orchids.
The grass is sprouting orchids.
It is becoming mostly orchids.
The trees are filled with orchids.
The tire swing is twirling with orchids.
The sunlight on the wet cement is a white orchid.
The car tires leave a trail of orchids.
A bouquet of orchids lifts from its tailpipe.
Teenagers are texting each other pictures
of orchids on their phones, which are also orchids.
Old men in orchid pennyloafers
furiously trade orchids.
Mothers fill bottles with warm orchids
to feed their infants, who are orchids themselves.
Their coos are a kind of orchid.
The clouds are all orchids.
They are raining orchids.
The walls are all orchids,
the teapot is an orchid,
the blank easel is an orchid
and this cold is an orchid. Oh,
Lydia, we miss you terribly.
Orchids are gushing out from the faucets.
The cat mews orchids from his mouth.
His whiskers are also orchids.
The grass is sprouting orchids.
It is becoming mostly orchids.
The trees are filled with orchids.
The tire swing is twirling with orchids.
The sunlight on the wet cement is a white orchid.
The car tires leave a trail of orchids.
A bouquet of orchids lifts from its tailpipe.
Teenagers are texting each other pictures
of orchids on their phones, which are also orchids.
Old men in orchid pennyloafers
furiously trade orchids.
Mothers fill bottles with warm orchids
to feed their infants, who are orchids themselves.
Their coos are a kind of orchid.
The clouds are all orchids.
They are raining orchids.
The walls are all orchids,
the teapot is an orchid,
the blank easel is an orchid
and this cold is an orchid. Oh,
Lydia, we miss you terribly.
LOVE POEM
KAVEH AKBAR
First published in The Bennington Review
Outside this morning barefoot I accidentally stepped
on two gray tufts of down, like a hare’s ears
but with beaks. Beaks and claws. I remember reading
sparrows often kill the babies of other species,
will swoop into a wren’s home and toss
the tiny nestlings out. I picked up the mangled birds
and wrapped them in an oilcloth. One said, how exciting
to know I haven’t felt everything there is. The other replied,
yes, what a thrill! Little victims, they didn’t know
what they were saying. It began to rain as I buried them
in the bentgrass. Their fluff was soft as seafoam.
on two gray tufts of down, like a hare’s ears
but with beaks. Beaks and claws. I remember reading
sparrows often kill the babies of other species,
will swoop into a wren’s home and toss
the tiny nestlings out. I picked up the mangled birds
and wrapped them in an oilcloth. One said, how exciting
to know I haven’t felt everything there is. The other replied,
yes, what a thrill! Little victims, they didn’t know
what they were saying. It began to rain as I buried them
in the bentgrass. Their fluff was soft as seafoam.
KAVEH AKBAR is the author of Calling a Wolf a Wolf (Alice James 2017).
