Sentry to the Pink Lady’s Slipper, protector
of the delicate orchid. Her plum breath speaks
in smoke curls that travel upward, a green screen that
paints a wet woodland scene. Once you slipped
her on for size on a moonless night.
Can you still feel the *****

of her bite? Cup the cool water
with both hands and watch as it trickles between your
knuckles. Use them for falling trees and
blowing bubbles into mountains. Make brightly burning fires
that lick

the undertow tangling your feet, drawing whiskey
from your lungs. Her pink slipper waits. Go
cover your body with dust.

Let her gather your crumbling yellow into her moccasin
and carry you above the leaf-covered ground to
a secret strawberry garden. Smell her red
and taste her white freckled with seeds in your mouth.