This evening's study the anatomy of the orchid, <br />the greenhouse glows—jut of glass at the third story <br /> <br />of the science building—a small, tended jungle <br />thriving in its humid room. Wearing identical <br /> <br />lab aprons, they lean over the misting table <br />or peer into the daintier air-orchids <br /> <br />in order to name and sketch the parts, <br />committing to memory the sepials, inner whorl <br /> <br />of petals, the column where male and female <br />fuse, and the sticky, stigmatic surface <br /> <br />of the pouting lip where birds, moths, <br />and bees would land if allowed this sterile <br /> <br />world. Each wall even the vaulted roof <br />a canvas, all their breathing dissolves <br /> <br />into the ordered atmosphere of this <br />one, sustained season—until, if seen <br /> <br />from the outside, the glass's weeping would <br />render them recognizable but changed, <br /> <br />their bodies, braids, aprons, the green leaves running <br />into a pleasing, impressionistic bleed.<br /><br />Claudia Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/orchid-anatomy/
