Roses of de Beauvoir Square - Kara Kazanoff
The obvious problem
does not hit you on the head in the middle
of the night, or sit under sandwiches
stacking on bed corners without
reprieve while the corner shop is trying to close.
No, it hides warily in the front window
display, taking a moment to reflect upon
women and children and red choral gowns
and the jingle of a man in a leather thong
promising silvery hideaways
- a modest refrain at the back of the house.
Only small fingers are allowed to point at it.
And poinsettias fall from canopies abroad, or do they
support our fall? Our father’s wish, never to be
taken seriously, but to be witnessed nonetheless
and maybe even spoken about, intimately, over pie and coffee
as when an old friend reminds you of the time
they poured your fishbowl down the
drain, but the fish had remained all along
in a glass on the table.