Red Tulips, Then Asphodel

Was I ever truly happy, like some girl in a red tank top

eating sunlight in Spring?

Hard to say. If flowers are symbols of emotions,

it's still hard to say.

What belongs, what goes, and which way. Did I once

feel like a tulip

bending gracefully toward its own root, its own death,

the lower my head

the more beautiful? Or was I ever showy like a peony

for one wild week,

sexed fully pink without blushing. What are emotions

anyway? Flowers die

not knowing. And yet our feelings lead us down that one

path we only ever take,

deceptively edged with bloom after bloom after bloom.