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Father’s body in a coffin;
Rings, at the altar
traded by barter;
Blood spills read as headlines;
Smiles captured in family photograph;
erect, with soft petals and armed with prickles.

If it will be
to trail the worn-off trails of time,
to when poets didn’t have four tummies to chew
their words back
and didn’t have to end their poems
too curtly,
when it began to feel as if their poems were starting to turn into CFCs

Then maybe,
We would write,
a bit freely,
without the itch of guilt
in our chests like spilled water,
Black rose;
Eternity red rose;
Damask rose;
Winchester cathedral;

A rose is now the synonym
of an event, duplicating
every detail in the petals

under the sheets

In this poem, I see the verses
to form
a bouquet.

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