These flowers are described by botanists as being perfect, bisexual, or hermaphrodite.

Stopping to consider the mostly unopened morning glories, wondering if I was awake earlier than they or if I had just missed them, I watched a bee squirm inside a few of them, bulging the sides out, barely welcomed. I like the insides of flowers. It's like looking up someone's skirt with absolutely no idea of what one might find there: a thousand identical but seemingly separate buds, imitation insects, sweet poison and small dead things, colours horrific and obscene, curving pistils and stamens both, or nothing but petals, twisting inward endlessly, perfect and disappointing.

Meredith and Rebecca and I walked in gardens on Saturday. We kissed stone goats and orchids, climbed a tower, tested water lilies, and illicitly ate berries and tomatoes and peppers. They were bold Eves; I only ate what they gave me. My rib is theirs to do with as they like.