Carol Rumens

A Flower of (no) Color

The packet of bulbs named them “Turban Noir.”
They were reduced. Some died. Four became

all the place has of sculpture,
Their color’s never been named.

Nothing is shamed by their grace —
the bird-shit or the chickweed, even me —

born without garden instincts,
dropped by the war-stork into dusty privet.

Whenever it rains, faint mist
blooms on the closed capsules.

Then the sun opens them, and looks inside
to see itself in the tiny androecium.

Tulip night falls slowly
as summer climbs the horizon.

Touch us, say the calyxes, touch honey’s
touch-pad. Anywhere.

I stroke deep, withdraw
a finger smudged with kohl.

Black tulips, have I found you?
Hold us in the widest span of skin-tones,

they warn; we’re colors that the light un-names
to hide them from your stories.