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Description

The red are the first to go.
Bitter petal tips and
a svelte arc in their withering.
Romance was ruby red and
carved like a brass bell.

The pink, they flaunt their inattention.
Frayed denim edges and
sandpaper words, sandcastle dreams.
They go out with a bang—
you’ll be deaf before the end.

The yellow cling to morning.
Trumpeting a canary simplicity, like
sooty toast on a Sunday.
The name’s Goldilocks and we’ll never
know what went wrong.

The white are artless in their art.
Collapsing outwards, brimful of longing
an ashen languor, a glowing sigh.
they scar as children do—
enrapt eyes and postmarked skin.

They were crowded into a vase,
clucking hens in a single crate.
Easily replaceable, but
noisy in their curious existence.
Their sinuous bloom flutters, like eyelashes.

Jeanne d’Arc could have used some
to spell her meaning into earth
as she burned to its embrace.
They’re lovely once but
die truthfully; a human stripped bare.