Roses, The

American Poetry Review, The, Jan/Feb 1997 by Snyder, Jennifer

I can barely imagine my mother naked in the cramped sobriety of water.

Because of this she doesn't disappear in the garden among

the movie star faces of roses. Because of this she is not shredded space,

although she is beautiful as a rose's crooked tundra. I can barely imagine my mother

on her honeymoon when the details of her body were a flower's siren--her

first time--and that darkness unraveled her.

She didn't marry for love and now her face is a venus fly trap

tasting lost kisses. I can barely imagine my mother swimming naked

under the stars' stupid confetti, her body underestimating the mathematics of roses.

She ways smells like roses because she wants to be loved straightforwardly

the way flowers are loved. She shoves her hands in the dirt and each bulb she plants

is the symbol of a mistake she's made. She is putting them

in muscles of space among planets and stars. Look out there

at the foggy tongue of her dress. Look at how she bends over like a question mark's artificial flower.

She is burying the promiscuous roses of her disappointment.