My fingers have slipped into her soft sepals,
creeping along her petals
like ladyfingers playing on a pure piano.
I have pulled her leafy dress down, slowly,
like an atheist turning the pages of a sacred book.
I have rested gently beside her
like a boy playing in Christmas snow,
waiting for some holy, miraculous light.
I have respected her, my flower!
My hands have played the guitar on her ribs
like a miner who has discovered
a golden wall in a faraway forest.
I’ve then disappeared
from her thirsty eyes,
like a happy crab walking along a vast
and desert beach during sunset
lest she would stick to my body
like the tentacles of an octopus
holding onto a wild boat
sweeping over a lake
containing the pieces of a broken religion.