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
                              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,
                              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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