Roses of de Beauvoir Square - Kara Kazanoff

 

 

The obvious problem

does not hit you on the head in the middle

of the night, or sit under sandwiches

stacking on bed corners without 

reprieve while the corner shop is trying to close.

No, it hides warily in the front window

display, taking a moment to reflect upon

women and children and red choral gowns

and the jingle of a man in a leather thong 

promising silvery hideaways

- a modest refrain at the back of the house. 

Only small fingers are allowed to point at it. 

And poinsettias fall from canopies abroad, or do they

support our fall? Our father’s wish, never to be

taken seriously, but to be witnessed nonetheless

and maybe even spoken about, intimately, over pie and coffee

as when an old friend reminds you of the time

they poured your fishbowl down the 

drain, but the fish had remained all along

in a glass on the table.