Anthesis

I.

What they won’t tell you is hearts break

as flowers bloom; beginning coarse

and bulbous beneath the dirt, we bury

them in the soil of our breast until

someone feeds enough to sprout

the seed, an induction that fosters

faith, a reason to rise into light.

II.

They won’t tell you a heart’s beauty,

as a flower’s, is not for lovers but for pests,

for passers-by who carry what we yield

from one place to another. We are fixed,

or fix ourselves to fit the delight of these.

We are warned of the withering to come

from those who endured it. We know

the stigma, we still give with hope to receive.

III.

We give and mature. Our cheeks flush

with color, a flaunt of vibrancy. How long

will this last we wonder. How long can

something remain open, dependent on something

else before it dies? Nothing can save a thing

from chance—that reckless boy skipping through

a garden in defiance, snapping the necks of stems,

deflowering a lea or garden, not knowing the need

for beauty, the kind we can’t see, but breathe.

IV.

They won’t tell you the pain a flower feels

as it exposes petals, how difficult that can be.

They won’t tell you that to open oneself

is to peel away guards, to give way to unknown

elements, the luring buzzes of all that can take

and break. This phase, they’ll tell you, is

when weakness and power meet, full bloom,

a moment to inhale. They’ll warn of the cold.

But they won’t tell you about what’s next:

how we’re scattered when broken, how

something grows from this. Somewhere else.

And that’s something.