by Georgia Hamann
There are wet roses in the garden
With petals like paper mâché just saturated
In newspaper pulp—drooping yawning
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,
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,
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.