René Magritte, 1952 

Open-mouthed to swallow
the sun, a portrait of my heart
           confesses the unforgivable—
the hope that I could break
the earth for you, ablush
           that I would someday bloom,
cloys what little sense there is
to be made of me now.
           How I held our focus 
to all the wrong anatomy:
ovary, stigma, style. A pistil,
           the wilting my heart can do,
unpetaling over my hips. Rooted
to a precipice, I did not know
           what would bud in my silence,
thorn curled as a beckoning, a threat
yet unsheathed. What I took
           as my flowering was an unfolding
of all I have yet to apologize for.
Deadly cultivar, I ache in the blight
           of seeing myself as I am.