By Ava C. Cipri

What genus are you, tiger-
lily? What species; woman, man,
beast that roars with regal trumpets
from roadsides? You inhabit

acres of wild open growth,
you root in parched fields
like a floating lantern, a lit orange bulb
burning toward the last filament of sun.
I am not the bee, the ant that shimmies
up your stem nor the intent of the wind.

I pull off the road and peer down the inlay
of your slim throat with its dark curling oracles.