Tory Adkisson

Summer in Paradise

There is the sudden sting of orchids
on my path. There is a bed of orchids

instead of your body. I crawl into it, furtive.
When I do I furrow.

There is the clean song
each finch flinches—& a hard

shade of brown coating
your irises. There is only so much

breath in my body, only
so much of it for you to steal. I’d give it

willingly, but that’s not the point,
is it? There is this moon on my lap.

This convocation of crows echoing off
the sides of cliffs. Bats boomeranging

back to their caves. Mayflies mating.
These are my hands, a gamble of roses

carded out, suit-side down.
(What to play, what to play.)

That is my obedience lining
the soft meat of your throat.

There it is, an ex-
action, staccato.