Magnolia

Blooming in stars, bells, cups, and saucers, before bees, before derelict cities.
I can’t google you without involving the suspicious affliction of needing
to name, or the geopolitics of search engines. I just want your petals
casting shadows across my face. And to know if they are edible.
Many botanists say yes: raw, cooked, pickled, dried.
Must I consume to love?
Must I be consumed by love?
I trust you know the answer, pollinated by
beetles 95 million years ago. I pluck your sturdy petals, make
tea. Imagine I can read the desiccated pulp. A kind of sacrament
to taste and be tasted. When I am one day buried in the dirt, I offer my
frame, tissue, heart. You didn’t ask me to live on like this. I’m asking you.



From We Contain Landscapes (Tin House, 2025). Reprinted with permission of the publisher.