Roses

There is no escaping the storm of roses

crisscrossed on the split-cracked wall

of a dead fountain arch.

There is no escaping their uterine balls,

expanding as a reminder of the children I never had.

If you listen carefully you can hear the vibrations,

the heart drone of their petal jaw-harps.

And there’s no going back,

no indiscovery of Mars

or these red planets brooding before me,

light predators, sun-hatched

and bloodening like the fists of women

who have gone to war.