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A Soon-To-Be Sky of Thornless Roses

Small hands, creased with tiny lines—
prick fingertips on the fresh green thorns.
Mother banishes them from the garden—
“Go kick up your heels.”

Vena amoris, throbbing beneath a slender knuckle—
plucks the petals one by one (he loves, he does not love).
Mother smiles wistfully, releases her—
“Go to him.”

Frail wrists rest softly on bouquets—
arrange them in a porous vase.
Mother entwines herself between the stems, whispers—

“Come home.”





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