Bougainvillea webbed the umber wall
in rich and brilliant threads. I’d never seen
these plum-brightened blooms, and mused
aloud, What is that flower? A passerby
stopped a moment, whispered
the gem. Actually, it could have been
a shout, for we travelers swarmed the walk,
all hollow tubes and pearls of air, clanging,
chiming as we swayed;
yet, surrounded by these roaring tidals
in my memory, her voice remains
cracking eggshells, opaline doors.
She might have been an unhinged root-
less florist, more shadow
than stem, most likely recalling
only the plumage that fanned
me: patch of denim, brick, a blur
of petals.