they interrogated the rose:
why are you-
who are you-
how dare you
bloom
did we say you could?
they could not hurt her-
freely, anyway,
her petals drift away
while they're all comparing notes
in another room:
and twisting the things how could she have said
(in all her pink unsayings):
into heavy unfestive balloon shapes.
they're stepping back
to see her after further considerations-
revealing only
the silvery outer shell of
a special rose silence
with petals, too-
mary angela douglas 12 october 2011
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