Published Minnesota Review
1975

I be the rose thief and bloom pirate,
Heed the prize in me bleeding fist.
I be the wild rose cherisher;
Capturing blood buds, thorns and
All with just me bare hands.
No blade against these sharp green claws.

Cool molten bolds comfort me flesh.
Petals heal the torn cups of me palms.
I brew wine from rose hips and sing of
Red raids. Cuts gush smiling from me
Fingers. I laugh and suck me blood
For sustenance. I be the rose ravager,
Feeding the thorns and swinging from trellises.

Dirt on the doormat. A bushel of roses
Torn out by the roots. Me blood on the
Basket-wood. On rusted wire handles.
I leave it at your door now and knock.
O, terror so becomes a rose.