A new poem by Beverley Bie Brahic
A garden rose is her desire, being
herself an ancient species, flesh and treacherous
but pink and practical, eyes
forget-me-not. We snip a rose
that’s opening, petals lipstick-smudged.
Strip thorns—no vicious prick
shall send this princess off to sleep a century.
Your bud needs water, I say—go
stick it in a glass. She loves me she loves me
not she strips each velvet petal off
discards it like a losing card. She loves me
not. Click clack the shutter of her smile—oh neat
white teeth! Roses in her cheeks!
Skin deep is deep enough for me.
BEVERLEY BIE BRAHIC’s poetry collection, White Sheets (CB Editions; Fitzhenry & Whiteside), was a finalist for the 2013 Forward Prize and her translation, Apollinaire, The Little Auto (CB Editions) was awarded the 2014 Scott Moncrieff Prize. Born in Saskatoon, she grew up in Vancouver and now lives in Paris and the San Francisco Bay Area.
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