Lotus Cross-Dress

That scroll of the lotus bud will
smoke, unopened: its petals light
a taper: its windowed pages swirl
cylindric, fever blushes channeled
up the tip. To unfurl them now
would be blissful hypothetical–
try to imagine it by cutting a
French novel with a pearl-
handled knife, or loosening
a corset’s stays, or peeling
a girdle to let discord flame
between a face’s testimony and
the mystery that swaddles
underneath. The movies show
this abyssal consternation,
soon to be charred in love’s
consumption— when the suitor
finally sees and doesn’t
care, doesn’t care.