A friend of mine told me about
a friend of hers
who’d come to question her sexuality
while married to a man.
He pressured her into things
like group sex,
lapping at the faucet of
her sexual confusion,
little more than a dog
who doesn’t understand
where the water comes from
and doesn’t care to.
There was a happy ending.
She fell in love with a woman
and they spent their retirements together,
long into an age when infirmity
ruled out sex. Because that, said my friend,
was her friend’s epiphany,
that what she’d wanted all along
was someone she could wake up with.
The flowers of a soul
are sometimes choked with weeds,
sometimes starved of light and water
and sometimes drowned in them.
Many types exist, and so the garden
can’t be named for this or that flower.
A queerness comes out
in the riot of red, yellow, purple, white,
black, azalea, and more.