RAFFLESIA, MY PRECIOUS
By forgettingsilence
they caught the smell at the forest’s edge
and turned back. so they never saw it —
five petals wider than a spread of arms,
thick as cut meat, freckled cream on red,
a red you don’t get from prettiness —
the red of the body’s own interiors.
a bloom like the slow clot of appetite,
years in the making.
no leaf, no stem, only a dark bud on the vine,
holding its tongue through five green summers —
and opens like a clasped fist in the morning,
risen overnight, a resurrection hidden between leaves.
a lantern of meat in the cold dark.
it burns quickly, then the dark honey collapses,
petal undoing petal,
its host closing over it for years again —
the blue moon of the undergrowth.
the smell: a sweetness
so thick that death is standing there.
but look closer —
the raised white welts a floral goosebump,
startled by a touch never named.
the ones who turned back,
a morning’s walk from a once‑in‑a‑decade chance,
still call it hideous.
the flies who stayed are sworn to it —
for they knew divinity when they reached one.