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
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.