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.






Copyright 2017 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.