Forms of Love

The Rose's Thorns

We do not know yet when rose's
leaves sharpened into thorns.
We imagine aeons of abuse,
a million days of unwanted
tongues, the incessant nibbling
of beaks and teeth and hairy
leather lips hungry for a bit
of red, yellow, pink, or white.
For how many centuries
did the cedared breath of goats
part the tightly folded petals
to eat her sweet, sweet hips?

We do not know yet when rose's
leaves sharpened into thorns;
they might have hardened overnight
as tender hands that held her
pulled away to hold the lily
or the iris near. Might it have been
the shame of sunlight shining
on to her face untouched by dew
or the ache of being pulled
apart to fall upon an empty bed,
the agony of scent unflared,
of flesh unwarmed in dark moon oil?

We do not know yet when rose's
leaves sharpened into thorns.
Perhaps she tired of weak perfumes,
the crystal vase, and poignant pose,
and urged herself toward wild.
I believe she wanted once to taste
a dancer's blood, hair aflight,
the guttural call, sweat between her legs.
Their feet desire a hard dirt floor
to pound into. On his lip one
tear of blood appears. She finds
the pain that beauty can command.