Les fleurs de la pluie
by Georgia Hamann
There are wet roses in the garden
With petals like paper mâché just saturated
In newspaper pulp—drooping yawning
fluttering
like tulle in the post-rain chill.
Ballerinas in silk dress
floating unchained by earth’s gravity,
bobbing their fat heads on willowy green necks,
thorns like knobby elbows.
My roses are mute-giggling fées,
faceless,
voiceless,
silent watchers who cry raindrops and shed moon shaving petals.
Their skirts are red-trimmed, thin layers of peeled eye,
like taking the skin off an apple,
blood shot,
Essence of chromatography: a separating,
A spreading slow
the way Keats’ coughs would spatter red
on fever-soaked rags,
drops bleeding to pink along the fabric.
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