This flower smells worse than a rotten chef salad.
This flower is never a sideshow at a festival--
it is the festival.
This flower wants to hide in a room with no windows
and believes in a delicious orange fungus
creeping under a rock.
This flower needs to pray.
This flower harbors the smoky secrets from a temple
made entirely of broken dishes.
This flower leaves a gash on the tourist too stunned
to gasp or cry.
It promises to taste your leg.
Hates the dumb throb and pierce of a worm.
This flower wants to wear black. This flower asks,
And how is the body inside?
-- Aimee Nezhukumatathil, At The Drive-In Volcano