December 23, 2008
A Rose from Roger
I have a rose from Roger and Linda loves him.
The cats rendezvous on the rug. I pose before
the rose, before the mirror in dusky candlelight
My waist is disappearing. There is a month’s
worth of daily news stacked by the fireplace.
I burn it—a sacrament. Dumb words to poems—
Smart words to fire—the being inside me tumbles.
The cats murder the garbage, devouring its heart
like fresh kill. I’m strange. I’m wonderful. March is
a wet lion on the lamb. I stand before the lit rose,
the lit mirror, to view pendulous vein laced breasts,
scary-mother-earth-tits. The baby counts my ribs.
The Peace Lily blooms. Vacuuming, I recall Roger’s
rosebud mouth kissing petals, sipping ambrosia, as if
I were tit and he, babe. Roger saying, “How did that felt?”
Roger saying, “Roger is complicated peoples.” I asked him to say,
“Take out the garbage,” in French, and he did. Valentine, the rose
you left presses open in the night glow, it’s secret escapes into
the evening air. Yesterday’s lovers fade. One leaves the words of a
foreign tongue, another’s tiny-self lingers bearing the lessons of love.