You gave me a rose <br />last time we met. <br /> <br />I told myself <br />if it bloomed <br />our love would bloom, <br />& if it died- <br /> <br />O I did not <br />consider <br />the possibility. <br /> <br />It died. <br /> <br />Though I cut <br />the stem <br />on a slant <br />as my mother <br />taught me, <br />though I dropped <br />an aspirin <br />in the water, <br /> <br />it hung its head <br />like a spent cock <br />& died. <br /> <br />It stands <br />on my desk now- <br />straight green stalk, <br />blood-red clot <br />of bud <br />drooping <br />like a hanged man's <br />head. <br /> <br />Does this mean <br />we are doomed? <br />Does this mean <br />all lovers <br />are doomed? <br /> <br />O my love- <br />I have not read roses <br />as amulets <br />in seven years. . . . <br /> <br />Which doom <br />is worse? <br />To love <br />& lose? <br /> <br />Or to lose <br />love <br />altogether <br />& not care <br />whether roses <br /> <br />live or die?<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rose-151/
