That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet

Unless the smell turns bitter. In memory or in fantasy

The thing that was called lovely, shoveled out a hole.

Every hint of what once was, a hardened hiraeth 

Sentiment prepared this garden, rake and bury, smoothed

Filth between the fingernails, worth more if it goes deeper

Scent of knowledge, bound in control

Smoke and mirrors and lipgloss and filters

The earth pressed hollow, prepared herself to lay.

By any other name would smell as sweet. A rose?

Of sleep. Of loss. Of lie. Of wilt.

Petals soothe or sicken, and yet remain the same

What veiled her thorns meant nothing

Resting in the frozen dirt, fallen, cold, and quiet

For what, they ask, they pity

To forget the name he gave her

There’s nothing to offend below.

That which we call a rose

Lives and dies, blooms and fades 

Bridal beds and coffin dress

Softly stinking on my kitchen table

Making me watch her fall apart

Dishonored, disgusting, disingenuous rose

No smell, no charm, not able to stand

A rose.