Depressions of a Two-World Lady

Artifax, Vol. 1.2 (1971)

Carole Beck

It is winter
and the roses are blooming.

Dark cauldrons of life
their hungry edges moisten
in the morning.

I watch
while ants play
upon a rose petal
like caraway seeds
in red wine.

Once, a petal
loosed from its hinge
funnelled sweet scents
into my lap.

I bit into
a rose petal

and dreamed of blood
bubbling from my lips

as a Dali still-life

unconscious of reality
but certain of pain.

From a bloody sky
the rain dripped
rose petals
carpeting the streets
with wet velvet.

When the storm ended
I lifted my face
with the scent of roses
and evaporated
into the sun.

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