Poems by Rose

The Self I Planted

 

I nurtured men who would not give me ground,

Poured gentle rain while my roots withered within;

They praised my petals, passed their praises round,

Then carved their cravings softly through my skin,

And called it love to take and take again.

 

Row after row, I learned what would not yield;

How barren mouths can bless the hand that gives;

How love can labor over lifeless field

Where nothing roots, or ripens, grows, or lives,

Yet still demands the gardener forgive.

 

I had no yard, no earth that called me home,

No backyard bed, no lawn where roots could lie;

I made my garden where the roof was stone,

In lifted pots beneath a borrowed sky,

And taught my tender hands to reach and rise.

 

Pot after pot, I learned what care could mean,

How stems can scratch the skin and still be true;

The cucumbers pricked; the lemongrass grew keen;

Tomatoes blushed from rooftop light they knew,

And every vine gave back what it drew.

 

The thorn tells truth before it takes its place;

It does not kiss me just to make me bleed.

It keeps its small defenses in its face,

Then answers hunger with a living seed,

And gives me fruit for all the faith I feed.

 

So let the old unflowered gardens go,

The barren beds that taught my heart to grieve.

Above the street where sharp roof-winds blow,

I plant the self I almost let them leave,

And taste the sweetness I was meant to receive.