A Rose

Andrea Calderon

Poetry

A rose: I am innocence lost;

with shedding life of new contradictions,

absent, now as in the early past.

Calm, no complications,

laboring at home, but me.

The emptying of words,

as were orders and no cleaning foam:

the splitting of your skin and I, falling,

not as, but fine with a rose.

The scent of baking:

and the taste of cooking,

a spicy food, replenishing for infinite occasions: for me.

exceptions almost real: you arriving with full hands of honey

ready to slap the time to turn and roll a grinding

rock to eat.

And guide the way; for me.

All well, but fine with a rose.

Authority: the smell of cooking

the fasting: I, me.

a crumb of bread, restoring for energy

sometime at home,

with laboring, only one apology: I me.

Excuses and exceptions,

done well, but fine with a rose.

Stopped, we left with no options

receiving no provisions,

but one sole operation: the planting.

I with no prohibitions like you,

all go too, first, second, and third

for me:

wronged with a rose.