for Naked Ladies. And the hothouse is smutty
with blooms. These lascivious amaryllises

are falling out of their painted pots, overwrought
among the heady stench of mulch. The opposite

of topiaries— girlish ivies pruned and trained
to hug wire frames— these light-headed bulbs

husbanded their own pubescence in the dark.
Underground. Now their free flowering goes on

forever: green swords thrust forth from a seed
of shyness; they become and become. Embarrass

like erotica, show off. They show, in blowsy sprays
of sheen that clothe the shaft then drop. No

amaranth, this flower has a willingness
to waste. We all know places we'll never fit in.

But a flower like this? All power, no fear.
This flower is out for itself. Full velveteen throttle.

This flower is not my fault.

-Leslie Williams