Against Roses
Melanie Figg
Go ahead and give me what I’ve been
wanting all these years:
a face I’m not reflected in,
a dog that comes when I call.
I’ve grown old waiting
for a golden bird that flutters
inside my heart while I sleep.
Your garden’s wild calm fools me
into believing I could live this way, become
a place that rests, a way to be content.
I hate roses, you know enough not to bring them,
but peonies, enormous in the yard,
not waiting any longer, endlessly opening—
O, to be a peony
exhausted from its own efforts—so much
better than the rose.
*
The only good thing about you
not living here is that each time
feels like the beginning: airports,
lace panties, me letting you
into the tub. I leave Rumi
on his shelf and lean against you.
We talk of nothing serious, never
your leaving soon, never the future.
But for awhile, the bubbles uncover me
and I let you wash the dry walls of my heart.
(I want green rooms and a good kitchen and
a bookshelf near the bathtub.
I still want that perfect thing,
that cage of hands that lets the bird go.)
Melanie Figg is the author of the award-winning poetry collection, Trace, and a recent National Endowment for the Arts Fellow. Her poems and essays appear in Hippocampus, RUMPUS, Colorado Review, Nimrod, and dozens of others. A certified professional coach, Melanie teaches writing, offers writing retreats, and works remotely with writers. www.melaniefigg.net.
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