Young girls praise irises,
think them soft and pretty.
Cling to fragile stalks
where they deposit immature
dreams.

 

I see Van Gogh, fingers smudged
in purple and blue paint,
sexing the virginal canvas
no one else dared touch.  

 

At thirteen, I had buds for breasts.
Firm petals that withdrew beneath
the light.  Hidden, stowed away
under cups of cotton clouds.

 

Boys were crows.  Black winged,
beaks for tongues.  Hovering
above unfamiliar terrain,
curious to dissect the flowers
to taste the seeds.  

 

At thirty-six, I know my anatomy,
bare my stigma towards the sun. 
My dress may fall when I blink.
Deep violet will show as time

 

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