The phalaenopsis
was an impulse buy,
a small luxury.
A guilty pleasure
placed by the sink
where only I can see,
it counterbalances
reflections of disappointment.
Artifice does not feature
in its language,
it has no critical eye.
Veins of amaranth course
through its petals
which curl towards me,
reaching out its stem
of delicate hearts
and slowly opening buds.
With its glossy leaves
and velvet tongue
it knows exactly
how to be.
Poem
Bathroom Orchid
Vanessa Proctor