Rose

If I could, I would tell you how your daughter tended to you
for sixty years after your petals were ground down to their oils.
How she tried, in vain, to pluck your thorns
from the base of her palms.
You filled every vase on every table,
but she never mentioned Jewish Harlem, Drobytsky Yar,
how you put your only boy in a box, for a war,
or no reason at all.  
how long it was autumn afterwards.
all your sisters who dug their own graves,
shot in the back by some nazi swine.
their spines, curved slightly to the right
just like yours, and your daughter’s-
just like mine.  
In the end, your daughter’s limp was so bad
she became a half foot shorter
on one side. In the end, she saw your face again
in the petals. In the end, they buried the children alive
to save the bullets.

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