Written in Lake Geneva, Spring, 2007
The boss gave me the Rose House that year, a
rickety A-frame of rotted wood and dirt floor
sheathed in visqueen. In winter I stuffed plastic
pots with dirt and root stock, 100's, 1000's,
each indistinguishable, row after row of thorn-
studded crotches. I spent afternoons alone
in the dead air consigned to Voodoo and Gypsy,
Perfume Delight and Perfect Moment,
Summer's Kiss and Sweet Surrender,
day after day until the dying light of March
swelled to April and the first purple tendrils
shot up like furious antlers and soon
the Rose House swelled with green lush
and the air sweetened and wavered
with its own irresistible narcotic
paradise, I succumbed to this forced
Spring, my flesh burnt with the sun
and the first buds fired my soul,
they opened slowly at first, gentle
friends of lavender and crimson,
then bottle rockets of brilliant
tiger-striped passion and strawberries
and cream, reckless peach and blood orange.
That summer I dreamy of luscious-
lipped women, sweet, full-lipped
women, women whose breasts smelt
of lilacs and roses, of honeysuckle and
mockorange, whose hair fell like
wisteria vine and clematis and wild
rambling roses, I was not tormented
by love so much as enchanted by love,
astonished by love, the idea of love,
I took a knife and slit the visqueen
skin and peeled it back off the swinging
ribs and the sun and wind swept
over the roses, I felt as if my life
had somehow come to a end,
even the bruised sky and lightning
could not frighten me. For days
I rode the perfumed air and nights
I slept under stars of color
and rode the wave of beauty opening
everywhere, it seemed. How could any
of this be happening to me? How could I
stand such a life, stand another moment
of such wonder? How could I not
dare another?
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