from my neighbor’s garden
because it’s lovely, because I like
the idea of orchids. I know
what I want: the white flower,
freckled fuchsia. A flower
the color of another
flower. I see it from my kitchen
window when I am slicing
Meyer lemons in the early light
to make Meyer lemon jam.
The juice reignites a papercut
and I suck my thumb clean like
a child seeking comfort like
I seek an orchid. If my neighbor
were neighborly
she would gift me an orchid
and I would gift her my jam
but that’s not who we are
to each other. I have to start again,
I have overcooked this jam. It is
too bitter and not lemony enough.
I don’t know how to care
for an orchid, but I’ll learn.
How hard can it be?
All I want is for my home,
briefly, to have the look
of someone who cares.