The Flowers

“per omnia saecula saeculorum…”

here are so many poems

I could send

To you, the words of other men

Who felt the ins and outs of love

And laughed at kisses, and in the end

Knew that kisses fade like tulips

After a day. Or I could send flowers.

Love  isn’t  flowers–God—what a

Symbol! beauty killed at its

eruption, plucked from living wood

To die by inches as we watch.


I was impressed with the vase

He gave you: my offering was

Poor by comparison, an internet

Special, “Only five days left

for guaranteed delivery

by February 14th”  And why shouldn’t

Valentine’s Day be about hearts broken

As much as hearts whole?


Six months, a whole half year

Since then.  No one remembers

The flowers or the poison. Well,

Not every detail, anyway.  And

True love blossoms even when we try

To keep it at bay, like the thorny

Wild roses that break the trellis and

Rise endlessly upward, stretching

everywhere from root to anchor

with only instinct and a love for

the sun as their conscience.


My true love is like that:

Wild red roses rambling and winding

Around me until I can only say

Cover me with thorns until

I can see the droplets of my blood

Forming on the pale skin. Twine

Around me, legs and trunk

And torso until I can no

Longer move away from you

Until I am hidden within you

Until I can no longer breathe.

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