Isabel of the Flowers

The Rose of Lima
I live in a veritable
cathedral of the flowers:
angels’ trumpet, la campanella, rosary peas and
mirabilis, the Miracle of Peru. Fuchsia, honey-
suckle, senna and lady’s purse; begonias,
Chinese lanterns, heliotrope and viburnum; canna lilies
coming up like fire from the stalk, black orchids
like tiny dragons yawning their greetings.
Hibiscus sways overhead while I thread
cantua, the flower of the Inca, on string for a banner, a
necklace.
But on my face, I rub crushed peppers and sand, and
soak my hands in lime, to fade my beauty.
I wear this circlet of finely wrought silver with thorns
like roses atop my head.
I am no flower.
Just a young woman who wants to live with
the green earth, the growing things; I will
marry no man.
I’ll stay here, in my parents’ garden,
dreaming of Satan and angels fighting
for my spirit.
I’ll embroider blossoms on linen,
I’ll watch the rain fall and the
mountains bloom.