Rose Queen
Two nights before the year’s first freeze
I drag the hulking plants inside
in hopes of staving off more death
The sage was already done for,
the lantana a furious octopus
poking my eyes and ears and nose
with one purple bud
The knock-out rose I hoist into the dining room,
budding bridal pink and pearl opal
defying the season in two places
dripping petal corners on my floor
We buried the rose queen by an oak and an angel
in the gasping straw-grass-heat of sticker-burr land
four counties over
Four of us dug a hole between her babies’ infant graves
and placed the last human shards of her
there
in a burgundy bag
I went back last week to see her
put my hands to the dirt, cover her with me
like in the hospital bed,
willing her to move
please, move
The land has settled, into
a small dirt mound she rises —
but only if you know where to look
I sit and hold the earth beneath my hands
like it is her face
There is one green blade —
green like candy, green like Christmas —
almost unseen
rising up from the new dirt earth,
growing from her body ashes,
one
new stem
toward the sky pushing up high
toward the living and the sun
