The Structure of a Flower: Sepal


In water a sung note

might bloom as singular, 

cellular organism. A snowflake

or other molecular nuance 

of beauty. Invisible to the naked eye

is air. Invisible to each mouth

a bio-language. To tongue

is to root, end-stopped. The 

epiglottis of the bulb orbiting,

silent. And what of flowering? 

What of sounding forth toward 

echo of sounding board, we call

horizon. Sighing out human 

message, guttural and beastly

miseries. Dear starlight. 

The nebula burning back,

reverberating back as each I

recedes to seed each asking.




The Structure of a Flower: Ovary


That goddess was once a girl, 

was once wounded on the steps

on her way to the temple. 

Her own temple bleeding into 

her eye as the men laughed. 

As the men tore at her dress

covering her in rapt saliva. 

Their salve a brutal nuance,

of annunciation. This ritual practice

they called Godly, they claimed mythic

in order to sanctify slaying her.


slow, slow, slow, slow, slow

multiplicity of organism

seeding of blood slow slow

slow slow slow seeding


That goddess was once a word,

and the word for that goddess 

was girl. And she was not o-shaped,

not open or agape. She was swarming

or fissured. Indented as a way to speak

deeper than surfaces. As a huntress

she was wild-eyed and ravishing. No other

atom dare approach uninvited. Lest he be 

gutted. She was not “girl-like,” not pink 

and tied up with ribbons or rope. She was 

volcanic, triumphant. Named woman. Named garden. 

And the person who named her was herself. 




Andrea Rexilius  is the author of Sister Urn (Sidebrow, 2019), New Organism: Essais (Letter Machine, 2014), Half of What They Carried Flew Away (Letter Machine, 2012), and To Be Human Is To Be A Conversation (Rescue Press, 2011). She is Core Faculty in Poetry, and Program Coordinator, for the Low-Residency Mile-High MFA in Creative Writing at Regis University. She also teaches in the Poetry Collective at the Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver, Colorado.