Madison Newman

The Third Dead Orchid

I called my mother to tell her

I tried to rescue another one of you

from the neglectful cold of the grocery store,

but you are dead

again

I buried you in a shoebox

in the backyard like a dead pet,

packing the corners with scraps of satin pillowcase

and fertilizer, your pot a hospice

and a refusal

from the time I unwrapped you from the stained cellophane

I strung your stem spine up with little white pearls,

made you offerings of eggshells

and ice cubes in vain attempts at revival.

It is my fault

for believing I can always play savior.

Your quick descent lasted only two and a half weeks—

two and a half weeks of your cloud-purple heads raised

in prayer, then your color fading like that prayer

Unanswered. Your stem drooped down

like an old woman’s brow,

roots sickling

and pressing their gnarled and tired mouths

to the moist soil.

Finally,

the end

was a self-guillotining:

your withered heads

      .                 rolling away

Madison Newman (she/her) is a student, grant writer, and lover of words. When not writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, spending time with her cat, and caring for a copious amount of houseplants.