This rose folds White as cream As thighs With the edge of pink And air Of a night filled room in the throes of candlelight. Under that rose, of sheets petaled around us, we form a flowering rise and fall of reaching for the tip of life within, where we begin wrapped in the smell of skin the taste of sound. This rose, -still soft, drying on my desk wafts chest and breast, fingertips, as I bend to breathe its borders red now -- blood calling to flesh and blat This rose, now, paper cloud, on my wall that I would tear, open to air, to teeth and tongue, the treble And base of the body song we've sung. The notes I write on yellow pads, are not those I would sing, from the parchment petals Of that rose.
MaryAnn Bennett Rosberg