I was not like a night bloom, opening once
in the perfect, safe dark,
but a magnolia blossom opening once and staying open
to the sun completely, through the rot
and yellowing and eventual unlatching of the petals
until the very center burns.
Once I began to crack like a waking lid, I could not stop
my looking. I was opened.
I sometimes wanted to belong solely
to that darkness—only the fat raccoons would see me
and would not care,
but I fell open like a broken aperture. The light
came in as if through a magnifying glass, and
I, a blade of grass.