Galena Rose
Tim W. Brown
You can't buy a good rose
in Galena, Illinois. None
with a stem long as a finger
tracing the vein from elbow
to wrist, none unfolding
like a wicked lower lip,
none that smell half so good
as nosing breasts, none
with thorns that prick like wit.
Say it with flowers, they say,
but how with bloodless, juiceless
flowers dried to adorn a door
for all the neighbors to see
or consigned to gather dust
in a sitting room vase?
The florist does his best
with what he stocks, cupping
hands around the flaccid bloom,
blowing pale breath to redden
a rose I'm dying to give my love,
the only rose in town.
