The carnivorous plant room funneled into the orchidarium,
with air so peppery and humid we felt slipped inside
the frilled chutes we gaggled at.
Catasetum Saccatum, Angraecum Sequapedale, we whispered,
blushing like Victorians caught tracing the lacy
postcard panties of some naughty French maid.
Others were equally overcome. One man yielded completely,
furtively stuffing his pockets until my husband
roared: I see what you’re doing, as if to a masturbator.
The man scurried away, and I understood
why the rarest blooms were locked behind glass:
Gardens are places we struggle to be good.
