Behind the cold glass doors of a supermarket display case,
dozens of roses perform a silent botanical ballet.
Supported by a chorus of baby's breath and calendula,
these prima donnas pose for shoppers,
seductively promising passion and tenderness,
possibly even forgiveness,
to the lucky few.
I glance dismally from the grocery line,
wondering in whose home they will eventually wilt.
Perhaps one or two elegant bouquets
that now proudly arabesque in their green plastic buckets
will briefly cheer someone’s kitchen or bedroom.
I know their bitter end will come regardless.
It always does.
Even the most beautifully fragrant blossom finds its final repose in the trash bin.
As I drive home through the suburban twilight,
My hand lingers on the car window ledge.
Narrowing my eyes at the sunset’s glare,
I wish for sunglasses and light a cigarette,
recalling the way those roses seemed to dance.
I once had a lover who called me his “little flower petal” during lusty moments.
Like the rose bouquets, our relationship also ended in the trash.
We were nothing special as far as romantic couples went,
and the affair’s end was admittedly a relief on my part.
My ability to feign happiness had long expired by that time.
In those days I hid behind scarlet lips and heady clouds of perfume
as if a glamorous ruse would mask the loneliness,
hide the darkness that came to match my bedroom eyes.
He thought he had somehow discovered an enigmatic screen siren,
A modern Marlena Dietrich with mysterious eyes and blonde tresses.
I knew better.
It wasn’t even his fault, that past love.
He was as charming and attentive as any handsome twenty-something,
eager to please and irresistibly arrogant.
My sadness appealed to him. He thought he could save me,
sweep me onto a white horse and ride to our distant lovers’ kingdom.
We used to talk about suicide, lying in bed with limbs entwined.
Whenever I described my three attempts he would kiss me and stroke my face
as if I were an injured bird.
We were so proud of my recovery, looking at my old life as a separate entity
that had been forever locked in the past.
We’d joke about the arsenal of medication in the linen closet,
counting out my “crazy pills” as if they were vitamins – a “happiness cocktail.”
He laughed at my collection of self-help literature and called me beautiful.
A beautiful blonde rose.
Our relationship wilted and was discarded.
I triumphantly snared others with my alluring sexual mystique
And kept the loneliness hidden like a family secret.
To be so skilled at deception is a dangerous gift,
and so frequently insisting that one’s life is normal and cheery and successful –
whatever that means –
leads one eventually to believe it.
Is it possible to lie to onself?
I prove it so, spiraling through an inner galaxy of turmoil and anxiety
while I maintain my beauty pageant smile.
“World Peace,” I grin.
Yet the darkness consumes without permission.
I managed to bury that blackness this white winter
by pretending the snowy fairyland that sparkled like crystal
was my chance for a clean slate.
Instead the March melt has revealed barren tundra.
So quickly it returns, this madness.
Today was a postcard for springtime itself,
with sunlight and birdsong and green buds peeking out shyly from the soil.
Unfortunately I let these small miracles pass unnoticed
and hid beneath the bed linens wearing yesterday’s clothes.
Sleep is again an all-consuming event, and I hole up in misery,
Cursing my own inactivity.
“Why?” echoes in my hollow head, “Why?”
I’m drowning in what Holly Golightly called the “mean reds”
and wishing I could laugh at the irony.
Perhaps my life is destined to be brief and starlit.
Like the market roses, my skin is soft and flushed with youth
And my beauty has yet to fade.
Yet I dance behind glass doors as well, it seems,
And will perhaps never last beyond my first bloom.
