Furious Rose

'It's not really poetry, but it's pretty,' he said.

As he raises his voice, she lowers her head.

'It makes my heart heavy, you're lonely, I think.

Oh, Rose, you're sad, I suppose.'

'Look in her bed and she's bound to be sleeping.

She's lying there dead. - No, she's breathing.'

Furious Rose, with your opiate eyes,

your languorous hum, that tone of surprise

I've heard energy in adversity.

Your smile: the soul of witchery.

You're not running away,

You're not running - are you?

Lyrically longing, she's tearing the words from the page.

She's fearfully seething.

'Bring me your blessings, a prayer, or a new pen.

- You don't know what I need.'

'Look in my bed and I'm bound to be sleeping,

I'm lying there dead, but I'm breathing.

And I'm barely balancing as it is,

And I don't want to drown in my dreams

Bring me wild plums and agrimony

I bet you don't even know what that means.'

Furious Rose with your opiate eyes,

Your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.

I've heard energy in adversity.

Your smile: the soul of witchery.

You're not running away,

you're not running - are you?

Gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room.

She's terribly freezing, she always knows when to go.


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