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Against Roses
A
long eugenic past
reduces
roses to
a
vain and pampered caste.
Their
charm is artifice,
their
fragile shell of cells
unfit
for wilderness.
Their
languid symmetries
and
anorexic airs
exalt
deformities.
A
run of blossoms, thick
and
tangled by the road,
displays
a truer pick.
Prefer
the bindweed vines
that
cannot stand alone
yet
clench the mossy spines
of
trees and grasp as tight
as
nightmares or disease
while
hoarding hints of light.
By
cloning a delight,
obsessing
towards some form,
we
dull what should excite.
A
rose bouquet contrives
to
label wordless joy
when
nothing true survives.
A.M.
Juster
©
A.M. Juster; first printed in
Mockingbird;
reprinted by
permission of the author.
Background
by
Barbara's Creative Corner
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