See, we need to get you familiar with the corporeal being of bougainvillea. I don’t know, maybe you’ve encountered it as a houseplant — that’s not what bougainvillea is all about. Bougainvillea, left to its own devices, is a force to be wrangled with. It’s the kudzu of the Southwest. It has thorny vines which choke out anything in the way, making a riotous cascade down any surface they’ve climbed.
The blossoms, left to their own genetic entropy, are pitch-perfect fuschia, while the tamer varieties may be orange or purple. For all the ferocity of the vines, the flowers are thin as paper and delicately veined, like a cat’s ears. Each blossom has three petals. Dry one, and it will turn to powder between your fingers.
I’ve always liked the contradiction of bougainvillea, much as I like the way an opal’s flaws make it beautiful. The flower was a totem of much of my early poetry.
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