A conversation with roses

You bloomed in earth’s dirt into the lightless dawn
Where blind bees fly like stones, poise in shadows
And pause for breath — that morning, small as a doll,
Flat sky purpled, I found your name. I found you in a
Churchyard, your petals dripped red, a bloody dye.

I had nothing to do with your guilt by this poorhouse
Where the dead die, where their bones are plaited into
Graves — crowded foot to foot, pushing up flowers,
Breaking the soil, breaking the backs of worms.

In this charity ward, my sister withers beneath your roots,
In her artificial life, she does not stir. And shall I follow,
Borrowing the silt of her tragedy. I remember a whiteness
Stilling her birth cry — mothered in and God-fathered out.

In plastic baskets with plastic flowers my mother lays them at our
Headstones — they do not rot. And the stoned-faced priest
Says, O pardon the one who knocks at her sister’s grave,
She found her remains. I lie in six feet of darkness, insects
Knocking on the pine-box. My last breath silent in my throat.

Copyright © 08/28/17 lance sheridan®

roses

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

36 comments on “A conversation with roses

  1. Well written thought provoking conversation with roses.

  2. I love this. Such innocence.

  3. Lona Gynt says:

    This poem truly lives up to being plaited, strands of grief and loss braided with beauty and love. A powerful excavation.

  4. Once again, the images you devise are striking, Lance. I am haunted by the phrase, “…their bones are plaited into Graves.”

  5. tara caribou says:

    Wow. So incredible. Um. Striking (is that the word?), vivid scenes.

  6. almerighi says:

    Una conversazione con le rose

    Sei sbocciata nella terra nella luce dell’alba
    Dove le api cieche volteggiano come pietre, equilibrate nelle ombre
    E fanno una pausa per respirare – quella mattina, piccola come una bambola,
    Cielo piatto purpureo, ho trovato il tuo nome. Ti ho trovato in un
    sagrato, i tuoi petali gocciolavano di rosso, una tintura insanguinata.

    Non ho niente a che fare con la tua colpa da questa povera casa
    Dove i morti muoiono, dove le loro ossa sono intrecciate in
    Graves – affollate da un piede all’altro, spingendo verso l’alto i fiori,
    rompendo il terreno, rompendo le schiene dei vermi.

    In questo reparto di beneficenza, mia sorella appassisce sotto le tue radici,
    Nella sua vita artificiale, lei non si muove. E seguirò,
    prendendo in prestito il limo della sua tragedia. Ricordo un candore che ha
    interrotto il suo grido di nascita – generato e generato da Dio.

    Nelle ceste di plastica con fiori di plastica mia madre le depone nelle nostre
    lapidi: non marciscono. E il sacerdote dalla faccia di pietra
    dice: “Scusa chi bussa alla tomba della sorella,
    Ha trovato i suoi resti. Io giaccio in sei piedi di buio, insetti che
    bussano alla pineta. Il mio ultimo respiro silenzioso in gola.

    Copyright © 28/08/17 lance sheridan®

    wow i love this poem

  7. Very moving poem. Beautiful.

  8. Anny says:

    Reblogged this on sovrasenso bisbigliato and commented:
    Meraviglioso poema

  9. Nahid Khan says:

    Such powerful imagery. Loved the form and structure of the poem.
    Going through your blog is like delving in a poetic treasure.
    😊

  10. Whew! Incredibly intense! Touching, sad,beautiful in an eerie sort of way. A brilliant piece!

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