Rose Deliverer


After I started loving someone, heads of roses
began arriving in front of my apartment door

instead of the morning paper.

How to tell you about my sorrow every time I lean my head

on your shoulder that moves away to reach for the lighter,
when there is too much gasoline in my eyes
from seeing you walking lamely in new shoes

full of the brick pieces from your burnt house.

There is no more water, my love, you say and walk
towards the dry kitchen through a city filled with smoke
with an empty canister in your hand.

If I had to learn how to survive without water,
I would start ripping the heads off roses first
before they die in the smoke,
my shadow told me,
through a burnt field of stems
of roses and an empty glass of water in hand.

There were just too many.
Too many dried roses heads leaning next to me
but I don't dare to touch them with my fingers
that smell of gasoline.

Who knows, maybe people will open

their morning paper one day and notice

my fingerprints on the last page
that smells of roses, but I don’t know.

 

- Natasha Nuhanovic