Photo: "Faraway Near" by Kimberly Cunningham
Every week I go to the grocery store and lust
for perennial bloomers. Eye pots of roses. I would give
them my home—glorious soil, and with a new-found love
and generosity, we could grow together.
The metaphor is not found here. Stay literal. Stick with me.
Up through the cracks, I’ve suspected up
through the broken glass… for some time devil
that I have been receiving, pour me
another shot —digital roses.
And what’s to be done?
Sometimes these things happen; there’s love coiling at the end
of the stem, unfolding, bold bleeding leaf
by leaf, affection slides away with a gracious rush.
Of course, I want to heed the advice—o, be generous
with red yes  but not too generous as to be seen, noticed.
I would not want to shake, hurt, offend. I want
to be silent progenitor of all spring-kindness-deeds.
Head tilting, sideways—hands
generous when the correct lover is present. I want
to be giving my yeswords.
Nobody wants yes
words, just yet.