The Rose
by Nynke Passi

I cut some roses with sewing scissors.
Placed in a vase on the table

they look prettier than ever. Dew
on the thin, veined skin of their cheeks,

they reek of secrets & promises.
Each folds fragile arms

around a shy heart. Within days,
bosoms are bared, red

dresses torn, revealing
wrinkled underwear.

I wait until all petals have fallen.
Then truth stands alone:

yellow unused pollen on a stem with thorns,
crowns without queens.

These will be thrown into the garbage,
buried beside burnt sausage,

peels & lemon rind.
Rape lingers in all things

& I, who have been tricked
out of my clothes, understand

the desperate, lonely splendor
of the fresh-cut rose.

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