I wear the lilies like a dress
moving to my rhythm, they creep;
their dreams are dancing in my head
and softly singing me to sleep.
Violets lick my honeyed praises
whispering a shy spell to keep;
their laughs are hiding my black wounds
and causing skeletons to weep.
Fires slip into my shadow
over my happy years they leap.
I find young reasons to lie down
in wicked roses, buried deep.
—Gianina Portfolio, 2000