Tulips

aren’t women. They’re men. Their golden folds are not to be mistaken for a vivid flounce of skirts. They’re the bold and shining helmets of foolish men gone to war. The movement of tulips is neither fluent, nor feminine. A tremor of wind quickens their breath as they stiffen in the harsh light stinging with sex. Sifting out of the soil, they hold the jutting spear of warriors, their beautiful shoulders turning, chests gory with color. Tulips fight to annihilate each other, spilling their sacks of seeds, biting down hard on bullets. Drawn from the straw battlefield, they limp with their trumpets home, foreskins peeled back, releasing their weapons to rest in the dark womb of rich air. Sheathed at the root by flaring hair, they gladly fall on their swords, imitate the dying of the sun. At night, tulips satisfy the moon with stunned and swollen lips, their buckets filled with cold light, stalks lengthening in pleasure. They suck water from the stone and leap to flood their lover. Direct, brazen and emblazoned, tulips aren’t women. They’re men. They are the shock of spreading red on a white bandage.