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  • There is a weed in the pit of my lungs, nestled in oxidized anxieties
    Making roots in the bulbous chambers of reddened alveoli

    It's a sickly orchid, pulled from the streets of Moyobamba
    Column of its flower filled with tear drops from the river Mayo
    Now it sings with the remnants of names

    Laws govern the hosts of flower buds
    Sepal foliage full of outright unintentional greenery
    What bee or butterfly or gnat courts pollen trapped in a vacuum
    What hummingbird or bat gains accolades in encircling the impossible
    What collector risks life and imprisonment for plants that smell like vanilla

    There is a weed in the pit of my lungs, shaped like the latin word for common and ordinary
    Its stem is a wrist worth holding and adorned with cattleya corsage
    Its petals are palms where effigies are sheltered
    Its labellum is a lip, where apologies are the smallest words

    When sighs are ineffectual
    I will breathe
    I can feel the roots in my knuckles
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