Roses

Because I knew Mama’s garden’s roses, I knew all roses.

They (all) were white ones and pink ones, maybe florescent too if my eyes were young enough.

Of course I’d ask if I could eat them
(because they were so pretty).

Were they dangerous?

She says no, but they are bitter; better take them with our tea.

Putting them in my hand made me a boy who took his tea with rose petals.

Papa,
who never loved me any differently than all he could,
kindly cut the thorns.

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