women have been flowers for millennia--
o let me paint you my lily of the valley, my narcissa,
my wild rose let me tell you what you look like
and therefore who you are-- but
here in this room, with all of these femme faces
lifted up to mine, i find myself
for once not at odds with a traditional telling of beauty.
we are a garden, here and now, and in our hands
rest petal and stamen both, and when we dance
we are the breeze and the bees.
tell me your story, sister, and i'll let you pick which blossom you are.

in this group are many stories and only in this group
exist the ears to hear them all. though we are
all flowers, wearing our difference and identity
and color and scent and familiarity and memories on our bodies
out in the world, it is into this dirt
that we sink delicate roots.
most of us do not think the roots will hold.

but we grow anyway: raucous against each other,
with varied moments of blossom and bloom and decay.
queer femmes have always built the garden
in which to keep themselves.
first because we are the only ones we trust
to do the pruning, and second
because every other bed has proven dangerous.
in this group there are many differences but
on one subject, we approach totality.

and so the roots do hold. the more of us that grow
together, the more stable the soil in which
new plants can bloom. the roots are tired, pale and frail
as newborn fingers curling around
a satisfying piece of loam, we are always rebirthing each other
and the roots do hold.