Crowns of Roses
A rose has thorns that prick and abuse the flesh
but the enchantress is there to court . . .
A poplin breeze languishes
on the branches of a seasoned oak tree
beneath its unmolested oasis a child waits
in dewy grass her face saturated
from tears of pristine
morning anxiety.
Mother said he wouldn’t come any more-
or hurt her again but he came last night
Jesus fondled her with filthy hands.
She wears a frazzled crown
as a infected tan hat a hand-me-down.
Her thoughts are intermingled
and her words way beyond her age.
Jesus is a friend of her mothers
he has lengthily wooly ginger hair
and is bony and tall.
His breathe smells of beer and musty bread -
when his tongue plays hide and seek
inside her mouth she protests the plague
that spreads to her tummy.
Beneath the Oak she angles her head-
in her hands and envisions a little mahogany boy
a thousand miles away.
A crown is for kings
not for fraudulent divinity . . .
He hears footsteps coming down the corridor.
The devil catches him waiting.
He bends down with electrify hands
and wrenches him up by the throat.
His feet barely brush the floor
he cries but nothing comes out.
The Devil says he has been a bad boy again
and he needs to be taught how to be masculine.
Devils belt batters against his back all over his skin
it inflames but he knows not to cry.
He bites down on his tongue
to keeps his tears unsung.
The Devil smells of sordid perfume and smoke.
His mom stands beside him-
begs for the devil to go away
and leave them alone.
The Devil laughs and strikes the child harder
blood strokes his skin.
He closes his eyes and tucks his body-
into a fetal position on the floor under his bed-
safe he believes from the Devils touch.
Sleep does not come to him but
he sees the face of a young girl
with wavy blonde hair and ivory skin
she has tears on her cheeks but
she smiles as she watches him.
“When I grow up
I will wash away your pain
and give to you
a Crown of roses,”
she says.
