258: A White Man's Fears

"Orchids suck moisture from the air,"

his mother tells him. "That's why

they have aerial roots."

The glass bowl is large, heavy with soil,

and he has to hold it with both hands.

Tendrils of peppermint green coil

over the sides, dragging across the backs

of his pale hands and fingers, alien

to his own skin.

His mother has a knack for making orchids grow.

Within weeks, they sprout flowers

in white and pink and purple and red

and fill the windowsills with dewy leaves and twigs,

and twisting roots that reach,

grasping, seizing

molecular combinations that he can't see

but undoubtedly feel

as keenly as the drag against his skin

that makes him think of spiders

skittering into corners

behind wardrobes and under beds —

too many legs shifting in jointed jazz

with the monsters creeping in the shadows.

In brave moments, when daylight

makes the shadows leap into the cracks

of the wooden panelling, he wonders how it might feel

to light a torch to see what lies hidden

under the bed when he goes to sleep. His deepest fears

jazzing with hairy eight-legged spiders?

Self-sufficient flora come to life

to take back the soil that's theirs?

He sets the bowl back on the windowsill and goes

to scrub the feeling of roots from his hands,

but the sax solos are too loud for him to sleep that night.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.