Poetry

How do you press a rose

when its thorns bite and scratch

the page? Do you pluck each petal

and lay them flat, disembodied,

to act as nature’s wreathe?

Do you take scissors to the spine,

halve it, gut it like a sardine?

Do you snip each leaf, lay them

to rest around their own clothes –

convince everyone that beauty

overrides murder?

If you saw an innocent

child lay frozen in the snow,

no ice cold mist passing her lips,

would you pluck each hair

from her head, press

them in your notebook?

Would you take an axe

to her spine when her fingers poked out

or her nails etched pleas

on the page?

Or would you cry over the loss

of a sweet, sweet child

and lay the rose

across her chest?

Copyright © 2016 Hannah Edge.  All rights reserved.

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