Briar Rose

I grow thorns, circling

my hands, my chest

expands with breath,

petals falling, the slow

breaking of stalks, leaves

only more growth, more

piercing of sides, more

bones joining my roses.

 

I am content with this

covering, active in my nest

of burs, not asleep at all

but weaving my pattern

of black stems and blown

heads, cultivating the wild

flowers that disintegrate

in my hands with the touch

of the cold wind’s quick kiss.

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