WILD ROSES

Growing abandoned by the railway tracks-as children they seemed huge

as we grew,they shrank.Now mere tiny outbursts of stubborn beauty insubordination

Red they were-positive as blood pain.We would be nicked and pricked

but still temptation reigned-to hold them was enough/to gather more in bundles

present them as fresh gifts as wilderness-little outlaws with their heads cut off.

Blood reminds me how reticent they were-they drew blobs when sweaty palms held too close

their green unbending resistances.No romance this-just stripped bunches of red desperadoes.

Do outlaws become roses when they sweat?Are gardens just cages for the wild?

Do birds know the difference between domestic and feral?Do children?

Somehow we recognized their rebellion as our own

In solidarity,we gifted authority figures with their ransom

We were more free via their beauty.We delivered them up to our gods.

They could then add sugar and stand them in tortured vases as signs

that the wild in us could be bunched and gathered and tamed and held

by the railway tracks we learned to be wild ourselves

It was the roses led the way!