The First Flower was Magnolia
Dion O'Reilly

There’s one in your chest. Seeing it is a fact
no one believes: picked-up missive in a dream.
In bud, it’s pod-like—a furred, tapered egg.
You don’t know what to make of it, rooted in your gut,

locked around your heart. Because so little is known
on your own, you seek a charm
from a six-foot witch, lithe as a whip,
her home—

full of fireflies, squirrely with buzzy lights.
She tells you whatever goddamn thing
in your chest, keep it. When it opens, it will be big
as a plate. The parting of sepals will let out bisexual parts,

and scars where petals fall. You understand scarring,

but you don’t get the unfurl bit, the utter opening, a contortionist
parting herself to thrust up anthers, stamen, pistil, stigma, ovary, and style.
Fearless, sentient, frost-white reveal. Call it what you like, this sign
in your chest. The opposite of boundaries, it’s got the guts

to be endless. If it tightens, she says, leave at once. If it opens.
Well, there you are. The first flower on Earth.