Above the earth, 

the shrubs, the oaks,

the roses in their terrible bloom.

Look how they feed on their own 

mad energy, until they stupor

and fold into themselves.  

In the house, there is always a hand

placing a rose on the table

in its porcelain vase.

See how the yellows reflect death,

how they try so hard to pale. See

how they push against themselves,

closing their thin lips to the dark.

They must live the small span 

of their lives without embarrassment,

never blushing their jaundiced skins.

My mother wants to eat the rose

with butter like a lemon crepe.

The white ones exist without effort, 

safely pulling their bonnets  

around themselves. They are here 

to please. Then, there are the pinks

and whites—their veins

scattering over their thin bodies

in watercolor fashion.

I think my mother wants, for once,

to be the red rose in its excitement.  

She must want, again, 

to be dark and intoxicating, full

of available thorns.

I can see her at twenty, saying

things she would never say now, 

brushing her grackle hair, speaking

in the intoxicating fume of roses:

Look how they are so in love with themselves

they tear their own skins. See

how they bruise themselves and fall away

in layers.  Look at them, 

how they pull their tiny scarves

so fiercely against their faces.