𝐉𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘 ― poetry book

006.

MS ACKLEY'S ROSE BUSH

in the back of ancient and old ms ackleys home
there is "a rose bush plagued with thorns"
she says- her voice like a crisp packet as
children walk by and roll their small eyes
because "ms ackley is crazy, she always has been."
some think like i do and think ms ackley
might just be the only one to see
it.

it is march and
the rose is pretty- small and budding
like cherubs being pushed in prams
supported by stalks of thorns like
a mother with a child in hand.

it is may and
the roses have already bloomed
with vicious yellows and roaring reds,
with green leaves that flock upwards
like a young girl who thinks she's destined
to rise.

it is june and
the petals are spread like some budding
teenager who wants to find out what life means.
with cherry red petals that fall to the floor as
young boys climb ms ackley's fence and
play with girls hearts.

it is october and
the thorns seem sharper than they
ever were. petals caught on thorns that
make the tips of pads bleed. ms ackley
whips out her garden scissors- and she
snips them away.

it is still october and
the petals are dying. they're browning
and dulling. vicious reds turn to melancholy
mauve whilst roaring yellows swing to some
muddy brown like the puddles in the streets
that ms ackley sees from her home.

it is november and
the roses are no more. crinkled and broken
the thorns are the only thing left. they've risen
in numbers like rabid feral animals. they've won
the war for now. sweet mothers turned distant
as their precious petals are no more.

it is december 31st.
happy new year! ms ackley sits in her rocking chair.
she sits there every year.
back and forth, back and forth. back in time,
forward to the future. petals put back in place
then ripped out all over again.
and draped over her legs is a roaring red blanket
filled with vicious yellows and melancholy mauve
with muddy brown like the puddles in the street
that she sees from her view.

fireworks burst into the sky like an explosion of
flower petals- they rain in the sky and ms ackley
closes her eyes. it's like it was yesterday- it's like
she can still hear the wedding bells.

if you were to talk to ms ackley, ask her
why she snipped away those thorns- she'd give you an answer.
"out of spite," she'd say, "but i don't know if
i have it in me anymore."
because the thorns are part of the rose bush-
and part of it they'll stay.
"it's their nature," she said, "but they fight each
other every day. just like i did- just like i used to."

so ms ackley leaves the roses alone- she
leaves them alone for the first time in a while.
she stares at the chaos- the battle that follows
as petals get stabbed into thorns or as
girls cry over rotten roses or as boys keep
climbing to steal their petals, keep spawning
like sharp knives on the backs of some budding bloomer
who only wants to rise.

she stares and she sighs, some bittersweet
memory occurs. she'll lay there for a while
and there she will stay.
back and forth, back and forth.

stare as she would at a dusty picture of her dead mother
on some cold winter's day.

to the mother and daughter who
fight like thorns and roses do:

i share the same roses and thorns-
i hope our vicious yellows and roaring
reds never dull.