The tulips droop, Diana

The tulips droop, Diana. They
were yellow when you passed
to me their slim gauze-wrapped
bodies and last night they burgeoned
into burning orange, but now they
list down the neck of the vase, Diana,
reaching for the floor or death.
The stems have rotted, Diana, I
do not know how this happens, my friend.
I pulled a bulb and it separated from its
umbilical cord too easily, rotted sinew,
furry mould coquetting behind a shoot. The
leaves weep red on the underside, Diana, oh
do not see this as portent of my maternity.
I saved them, Diana, I cut them and put them
back into water: mutilated stalks, four
pregnant knots. Will they still open, Diana,
though they are squat now? I cut off the
mould and the blooded teardrops.
I amputated them.
They are fine now.
This is fine.

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Grace Shelley (she/her) is a writer, teacher, and editor from Tāmaki Makaurau. She is the founding editor of queer literary journal Overcom. Her writing has appeared in Sweet Mammalian, Rat World, Mayhem, Tarot, and bad apple.