Roses
Sad how things expire before you work out
what they mean. Like earlier I was noticing
the rose petals on the path, all damp and slick,
and thinking how I will never be truly happy
for a thousand uncontested reasons. But now,
things are clearing up. I look at the petals –
the same ones – and think: Roses! And the bush
above them is so green and pink that it can
give this many petals; it can afford this offer
to the ground. There is life to spare. I go out
and under the canal bridge is graffiti saying:
Love is cheap! First, I am grateful for the knowledge,
spend all day believing love is cheap
and I can buy enough to keep me sweet.
But then, I am troubled. If love is so cheap,
then why would I want it in the first place?
What is the higher good that it is struggling
to be? What can I own that is so expensive
that all prices take their rank from its amount?
Is there an end to accumulation? I see the petals
on the path and they are tired and old, like little
wasted coins. I would gather them up and offer
them to you. I would find them soft and slightly
slimy to the touch. They would be what I have.
Oh God, this life is nothing more than what I have.
Lue Mac is a queer, rural poet from the south west of England. Their poetry has appeared in many journals and in Murmurations, out from Besides Press in 2021. They write about weird nature and the compulsions of joy.