By Christine Jackson
The roses of their love die first;
Soft, perfumed blooms peel away
like rotting flesh.
Baby’s breath lasts longer;
Sprays of white mini-blossoms
Until they can’t compete for water.
Dry stems snap,
Buds fall away
stiff as paper snowflakes
from a child’s scissors.
She draws the bundle of slimy stalks
From the vase,
Kisses the gangrenous leaves goodbye,
And drops the entire handful
into the trash on top of
the coffee grounds.
Christine Jackson teaches literature and creative writing at a South Florida university. She
also presents creative writing workshops for local writing communities. Her poetry has
been published in print and online publications, including The Sandy River Review, Shot Glass
Journal, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Stay Weird and Keep Writing, and A Quiet Courage.