An exotic flower is growing outside my door;
she creeps from society’s tangle,
and shies in the darkness beyond the sun
in the shared liminal garden between apts.

​

In her darkness, she is quite aware of the consequences
of being the invasive species.

​

I wonder, how can lust blossom without a gardener
to quench its swells of lascivious thirst before wilting;
before diminishing desire deadens into detritus?—
an offering better left to rot.

​

She is growing tall, she must be trimmed
to hold space in this so-called Eden.
She will not be cradled in rich, nutritive soil tonight;
how a fresh pot is hardly enough for one bloom.

​

I see a gardener arrive across the meadow, clippers in hand,
her leaves and vines are of no use;
no discoloration, however beautiful, may flourish.
He desires only to press the flower pristine
between pages where her beauty will be preserved,
frozen and forgotten.