the men who murdered the heart of the rose
~
began with the father my mother chose
he was a man who could never be found
just like the second father who was never around
the boy at five who said let’s show our parts
the boy at eight who reached for her petals
the boys who began at thirteen for the reaching
the men at fourteen with the constant screeching
the boy at fifteen with the snakes on his ring
(Her constant long search for a chivalrous king)
the man at sixteen who tried parting her lips
the man at seventeen with the wonderful kiss
the man at nineteen with an actual deflowering
who claimed he was in love, but his anger was devouring
that man at nineteen threw her down a stair
and she miscarried the baby that was growing there
(the rose began to develop her thorns, one for each wound, each lie, things torn)
the man at twenty one and the series of chances
when love might have flowered through all of the dances
the man at twenty two when she fell deeply in love
who raped her with his camera, when she was a dove
she saved all his roses till they ended in dust
she realized his feelings were lies she couldn’t trust
the man at twenty three who wanted marriage like a bond
the two she deflowered to keep them from harm
(on her own little balcony she potted bareroots)
married men during college and their constant pursuits
(she grew her own flowers, she tended the roots)
the man that came calling and begged her to wed
once left hundreds of roses in her little bed
the cottage they bought that was surely for children
killed all of her dreams as he wasn’t beholden
her roses grew thick and untamed on the land
their petals were stronger than the ring on her hand
her search for a prince had been wildly in vain
until a humble man entered her garden again
his kindness stripped thorns that had hardened to hatred
she blossomed forever under the gentling of hands
love letters are the gifts between roses in gardens
their fragrances pure as the new dawn of day
(her petals were formed into thousands of stories)
each leaf a page of the newest unfurlings
a king had not come yet from the legions of men
and the garden was lonely in a wintry season
she’ll fly like a bird from the roses of old
and plant many new bareroots, braving the cold
the men that thought they could murder the rose?
had another thing coming, for her petals were prose.
~
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 