I had a barrage of roses tangled in my brain.
I was taken with this fragrance, bedeviled
with the bee’s pollen and night grace.
I desired and wanted all at once, pooled
in a reservoir where my childhood drank,
from a well stationed in the backyard
of my memory. The struggling grass
and the swinging tire, glass bottles
set beside the fence as flowers. My mind
returned here where refuge was the promise
of growth instead of the bloom itself.
I was a child of rust, browning at the interior,
with a scent of floral determination.
You’ll sometimes find me here, too,
as a lion, the day’s nettle in my mane.
If there was a roar, it shuddered the puddles
which shook in delight. If there was stalking
it might have been by the train tracks, which never
functioned except sometimes there was a
faint bell at night, sometimes signaling
someone about to trip lightly on the runner.