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.
Whats in a name?
Sweet hope and expectation
That beauty is for beholding
That longings dream for endings
That depths don’t mean destructions
That a rose is named for something.
Cindy Koch 