Poetry / Keeping Roses

The roses sit in their vase
and stare at me
like soft, mad children.
I feed them and put them in the sun
though I wonder
why I didn't orphan them
on your doorstep.

Sometimes, I plot against them--
violent premeditations or
the accidental broken limb
or sheer neglect to watch
their ribs show and stomachs bloat
before collapse.

But they
have caused no pain
even when they bite and tremble
as I put them outside
for the pack of winds
howling at my doorstep.
It is kinder this way
to be torn quickly.