The Roses Are Fifteen Poem by Kirby Wright

Your purchase? Fifteen red long stems roped by white string. You bought at noon, at the border where roses grow like weeds with many thorns, thorns threatening your hands in this desert heat. Roses struggle out of the dust of my land, senoritã, and I pick these weeds because you buy them instead of the flowers on your side. You want the discount. But there is trouble with my blossoms—they wilt after you pass the checkpoint. Your guard waved you home after smelling their innocence in your hands, but my roses die even as you drive because my sweat was not enough to keep them alive. Buds droop in clumps, refusing life beyond the border. Thorns are stilettos on the stems, blades jutting from twisted frames.

My supply? Over forty bunches. You took the biggest. I said it looked like a dozen, take them. I lied. I let you have the extras because I knew you would be happy with a bargain. You made the deal. I only hoped the thorns would not cut badly, you waiting patiently for the buds to open, you not believing a newborn could die in your arms with no warning at all.

You must watch surrendering petals drip off the buds: they bleed across the table and spill, staining your floor. You purchased my flowers. Now live with them as their romance drains. My roses seduced and deceived you. Careful not to wound yourself as you pull fifteen stems from the dead water, one by one.