black roses
the roses were the question
when they arrived
she put them in a vase by the door
and then forgot them to the morning
the flowers were roses of a crimson description
later,
when he cut his finger
on the thorns of her tender flesh
it was the first he knew of roses
when he left in sadness
his future desperation
she turned to the roses
that were now the deepest maroon
weeks later,
having heard nothing more
but the newspaper's ugly description
she sat at her mirror and drew pictures
of the black roses in the hall
Copyright © michael dennis / Ordinary Press 1982
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