Fringes at your petals’ throat
are sea anemone tentacles,
ready to hook wandering food.
Your veins are dark red lines
in hospital corridors, leading to the lab
and another blood draw.
You’re no flytrap. Careless aphids savor
your easy sap, feed in clusters
on the tender undersides
of liquid green stems of lotus leaves
where they bloom like fungus on cheese.
Pistils ogle, crane their heads
to see what the bees are after.
Pollen collects in the stem-green spur,
a florist’s plastic handle
for your private bouquet of petals,
safety-vest orange, saffron streaked with chocolate,
ink swirls in water, darker, then thinner.
Karen Greenbaum-Maya, clinical psychologist, former German Lit. major, and Pushcart Prize nominee, no longer lives for Art, but still. Her poems and photographs appear in many publications. Her first chapbook, Eggs Satori, was finalist of note in Pudding House Publications’ 2010 competition.