We glitter in a clutch confused,
much like coal sparkles when pressed,
interpreting the silence of the orchids
as the pettyness of frilly things.

The shell still dams life on the other side
with a thickness matching skulls of fools.
We hatchlings scrape our fangs in vain
along concrete walls impeding release.

The orchids have no answers
indelicate enough for us to understand.
Orchids have no empathy for explosions.

M-80s are a less sensitive brood.
They know what makes the clock tick,
what makes the peach pit crack, uncoil, stretch.