The Gardener’s Rose


Rose of my soul

My calloused fingers close around your stem with meticulous reverence

My skin tastes the claws that prance about with dagger’s peaks

My head is placed between the lion’s jaws

The soul’s fire in these ribs forbids me to cease


Can I ask you to be careful, love?

Can you take heart before you rip my skin

If you should tear away as a fox, starved, from a snare?

Do you not feel the pulse in this neck

Pushing against your sharpened teeth?

Or the pulse of this stupidity

That craves your incense at any cost?


Could ever you guess the danger I am in,

Or the tether in your hands?


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