Hot blooded rose: its per-
fumed crimson bed –
boudoir for a drunk and
dizzying bee
amorous and swollen be
fore it sped
in grainy dark where the
sun used to be.
Pixilated grains materialize
in the likeness of my
mother, then ten,
swaddling a rose with
tenderest of eyes
unable to conceal her
daddy’s secret sin.
Some shames photograph best
in celluloid.
Others resist exposure to
light.
She’ll soon find it impossible
to avoid
his hot drunken breath
on her neck at night.
Who can expect a fragile
bud to bloom
when one giving life won’t
give any room?
**Featured image from PickPik
Eddie: “Taboo,” especially as it hits so close home, is heart rending but beautifully rendered. Your use of a modern sonnet is evocative, adding a contemporary twist to the entanglement of a rose with pain and loss of innocence. Thank you.
First the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of the bloom, then the sharp, stabbing pain of the thorn. I will never look at a rose the same way again.