The Flower is Haunted By
I.
noses pressed to
lilacs in the purpled
garden night
he said, You know, peonies
have no way to unfurl
on their own, they depend
on ants to come and burrow
inside, to unlatch
the blossoms—
and though
he was the kindest, the gentlest,
I could think only
of men convinced
they were the ant,
their job
to rupture.
II.
The dig. Slow sifting of
soil away
with tiny brushes.
Wooden trays filled
with slabs of moss, little caskets
limned with plush greening,
to lay the rusted metal hinges
and jewelry into, every
man there swooning
over the tooled
and hammered decrepit
metal. I thought, my gods,
all I want
is that cradle
of moss, just lay me
into it and never
touch me again.
The Knife, Sharpened
I sold
the diamond ring, swept
the corners of the rooms, slept
with a pine branch
beside me.
How long
it has taken to find every stray
clipping
to throw into the fire.
The wolf in the bed
said, You owe me,
you opened
your door.
How long
does it take, yarrow
on the doorstep,
wedding dress
given away,
a pint of blood,
all bribes
returned,
all debts paid.
Adrie Rose plays with words and plants in unceded Nonotuck territory. Her work has previously appeared in Witness, Rise Up Review, The Rail, Poetry and more. She won the Elizabeth Babcock Poetry Prize, Ethel Olin Corbin Prize, and Gertrude Posner Spencer Prize in 2021. Find her on Twitter @AdrieLovesPie