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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s