Fight in January

There’s no tulips
this side of the rain forest. Only roses
growing gnarly and black. Then it smacks your face
like a giant splay of Queen Anne’s lace.
White as ice, and crumbling fast.

Now you’re running out the door.
No one’s behind you. Winter
scissors your fingers apart. There.
On the ground. Smoke in the teeth.
Your mouth, gaped open,
next to your feet.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>