Their dark eyes and tiny ovaries and throats the shape of bells. She imagines them all different ways: soaked in a rainstorm, wild in a field, mussed, nibbled, strewn. Moth orchids really send her. Not to mention tulips who get sleepy and tuck themselves in at night.
Or begonias that tremble at the touch
of wild bees and thunder. The world is full of men, but my friend is a botanist. Her desire is in details: carpal, drupelet, scent. Blossoms that mother into fruit. Each pistil, a dart of dreaming-Each petal — a soft lip searching.
Each stem, a staunch body, singing like the rest of us
of the dirt from whence it came.
My Friend Tells Me She Thinks Of Flowers During Sex
Joy Sullivan