Nothing to Hide
in memory of Assotto Saint
I was born caged with love,
and I have an infinite
amount to show,
so I wear a coat
that turns out, the way tulips like to do.
Tulip, I insist on saying your name,
Tulip, I insist on being hauled from the ground
in a tight gray glove, a curling fist
sent straight to the sun rays.
I keep it up– and who’s counting– for a month,
bobbing in the air, more modest and choosy at night,
and splayed open at noon to all of Rome,
then petal by petal, triumphant,
drop, bloody drop-dead gorgeous.