March 7, 2015

Roses


Everything
from my early life
is a dried red rose
left in an old book,
like my great grandmother,
a brittle petal,
turning to dust
at the touch
of the wind,
senile in her nineties,
closing the door
in my mother's face,
calling us
that strange woman
with her two ugly children,
forgetting
we were her future,
in whose memory
she would be pressed,
closed up, tucked away
on a shelf,
forever.