One for each day I refused you
Long stemmed, thornless
Velvet red, tight little heads
Obediently unfurling
Who decided Baccara were
Perfection?
You drive us out into the wilderness
My hair curls at the base of my neck
The approaching damp rotted wood cools us.
We find a hedgerow of blossoms
I take off my shirt and collect as many as I can carry
To do what with, you don’t know.
Later,
I buy two bottles of water at a petrol station
And you scream at me for spending $6
I drink both and let you thirst
You apologise, apathetically, 60kms later
And fall back into your seduction curve
So worn and familiar.
As if I were a woman gullible
And unknowing of the ways of men like you
As blooms grown under glass are
To the perils of a pollinating garden...
I keep sharp steel scissors in my purse
Neat enough to fit the palm of my hand
I snip at heads, fragrant and lolling
And have stolen into gardens
To carry out faces, fragile as paper
Sodden with fragrance,
Deep down my sweater.
Pockets lined with thorn pricked blood spots
Guilty ladybugs.
You complain your gift of roses
Strapped on the backseat
Are giving you a headache
But the roses, crisp and wilting
Are sterile; they have no scent.
You want to know if I’m going to forgive you,
I finger the cool metal in my pocket
Consider the bulging vein on your neck
And how this could all be oh so different
Instead I take an interest in passing fields.
‘Say something’
Instead I sing. You’re so appalled you pull over;
You demand I stop.
But I do not.
Accomplishment is no prerequisite:
