Nightstand With Roses
By Jody Zorgdrager
They weren’t red nor was I angry,
but with something five shades lighter
than passion, I plucked the roses bald.
Anyway, they were sorry things.
Their nodding heads on such long stems
reminded me how tiring it is,
always trying to forgive.
And besides, I did it gently, pulling petals
the way one tugs off an insect’s wings,
by twos. What my thumb and fingertips
began to hear—yes, they listened for it—
was the shaggy center’s thick dribble,
the tiny rip of dismemberment,
and, in between, the moment of small panic
that comes before—as just before withdrawing
a mouth from another mouth there comes
that in-suck, that sudden taking back although
you’ve already given it up, given up
to it—the letting go. I couldn’t stop
until I had the whole drawer full
of floating pink on pink.
