Where I come from, we call them horns
not very poetic.
A name, just a name,
overlooked and undervalued.
The only flower we were allowed
to pick in mother’s garden
just to play with. The flowers
were fried eggs, the leaves steak.
Dark green steak—it made sense then.
Another continent, another name.
They grew on me so much
that they were the only flowers
in my wedding bouquet.
First appeared in Moss Piglet Art and Literary Journal (May 2025)