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TWISTS OF ROSES

Susan Smith Nash

 

 

We pulled ourselves away

from the shrill tangle of lies and guns

 

a small bench, a twist of roses

the smell of sweet, green grass

 

and a fire burned down

into the rocks and sand

 

Your eyes, hot and wet,

singular coins, unblinking,

end-over-end

sinking into the depths of my waters

 

cool and clear like a first encounter

untinged by disappointment

 

ropes still coiled and fresh

smelling of jasmine and rain

 

under twists of roses

we pull ourselves further

away