Kimberly Johnson


No seduction in the hothouse, its aisles
of deliberate orchids only heave
beneath ceiling fans. The horticulturist’s
a bawd—her monstrous offspring affront
with chromatic perfection, charm in array.

But when the orange orchard blossoms,
I am thrown.

Raptures in the garden? Never once did rows
of carrot so well-weeded yield
a swoon. Beware that flim-flam man,
the farmer, I grouse in passing, sowing
season by season an almanac theology.

But when orange blossoms wave
in pneumatic arcades, I dither. I coo. I hallelu.