Her Father’s Rose

(author's note - this explains my hatred for gardening.)



By June the grass is long

The lawn is also spotted with those weedy flowers
Which I call mo-be-gones, ‘cause once I mow they’ll be gone

I let the grass grow, I love to let it grow
Until the grass stalks and the seed tassels waive high
As American amber waves in the wind,
It’s then that mowing grass saves me
From buying grass seed from stores,
From the sin of reseeding the lawn,
Why scatter God the Farmers good seed
When this simple honest lawn reseeds it’s self?
Or, you’re right, perhaps that’s just my excuse for being,
  I’m lazy

Her Father used to mow our lawn twice monthly
Whether it needed it or not
But grudgingly, as if with nature
He’d set an unnatural score,
And I didn’t envy him those
Scratches on his arms and neck
I never understood just how can
A man cutting grass so hash up his arms?

"Are my Fathers roses in bloom," she asks me,
"My Father clipped clip a rose from that bush for my Mother everyday, whether sick, or well, or,…"

"You mean in the old garden patch?"
"I guess, but clipped flowers don’t bloom as long,"
"They’ll be happier to stay in sun and on the vine."

"My Father used to say that, but then he said he found religion."
"You could clip me a, later, if you think of it."

"I could, but then their petals will drop."
I did not know it, but later I’ll tell her
"After that, I’ll gladly take my revenge."

So I mow the yard
His rose bush is waiting,
Spooning an arch over the grass walkway,
Conceitedly just waving fro, not to, just fro.
As I pass the mower under her trip wire arms
She turns her thorned arms on me
Winding tendrils round my arms
And scandant for my shirt and neck,
With feral spurs she pulls me in, scoring
By a final vicious touch - she spikes my forearm

"Ah! Fuck you rose!"
"Cut that out or I’ll mow the lot of you, Don’t think I won’t…"
"Fuckin’ attack bush!"

I press on mowing more laps around the summer lawn,
While the sun and the poppy aromas of mown grass
And 2 stroke engine smoke conspire to exhaust me
Soon my wounded pride and painful battle scars subside,
Yet there is a cool wet running down my arm,

Blood, red blood
Blood, red blood, red as her feral rose petals,
Blood, red blood, and painless as finding an engorging tick, deceiving,
Blood, red blood, as if I ought to curb the mower,
  and wash this up before it stains my gloves and clothes,
Blood, red blood, and blood ready
  for that unholy conversion of my once Christian and sympathetic heart

She asks me "What Happened?"
"That bush attacked me. Look at the blood!"

"Ooo!, that looks like it hurts. You could trim it if you wanted to."
And now is that later when I tell her
"After this, I’ll gladly take my revenge."

With a blunt rusted shear I clipped
An innocent sprig standing in the sun,
And then another for its lover,
As an example to stand and atone with the first
Before my judgement of cold blood,
Then I tried this gory bouquet by
Standing them in a short glass mug with tap water

The Romans called it decimation
They made no last requests

"Here baby. Bloom of the Rose that bit me."
"Oh, they’re beautiful!"