I call you, my love,
My orchid,
Your blossoms hanging lavishly, the bloom's
Waxy translucence
Shuddering with quiet passion
And anticipation
Beckoning consummation.

My testicle plant.
But don't tell Grandma
That's what orchid means in Greek.
She won't appreciate it.
She prefers her orchids
Lined up on the windowsill
Bringing sweet memories of passion
Deep reds, spikes of purple
Yellow, blue and saffron

Not the hairy scrotum
Of a seed sack.

Life's like that,
Like a baboon's red and blue behind
Mimicking the cheeks.
The beauty of color and shape
Pulling the eye
Engaging the mind
Bewitching with its
Shape and form,
Leaving confusion
And a faint whiff of disgust
As to the purpose
Of so much beauty.

I prefer orchids.
And never learned Greek.