It was my rose to pick

by Brent Nichols, '10

waiting timidly at the edge of the garden
where Sweet Williams bloom wildly
walking past white picket fences
that gawk as I open glass doors

my eyes traverse bright yellow walls displaying
fresh faces freed of 23 gram choices affirmed in blue ink
as my hand wavers like leaves in the wind
while crisply dressed professionals methodically
examine my unwanted germination
on black and white images

I prepare to pluck each petal
soft as down coalescing into a crimson pillow
staring at the ceiling
fixated on the incandescent light
warming my face like a turkey in an oven
overflowing with sage stuffing as I am stretched open
a whirring storm is placed inside me
removing remnants of pistil and seed

It is my harvest to tend
stainless curettes carefully dissect the stem
pruning away uninvited foliage
carving and separating flesh soft as snowflakes
winter dances down from my eyelashes
slipping down my cheeks as stigma and style are laid bare

empty as an oven after Thanksgiving dinner
guilt I know I shouldn’t feel clings sticky as sap
as I wonder what each petal looked like
how they would have clasped my fingers
and felt against my cheek