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