The Californica Plena rose
looks ready to bust out, bristling
with buds like tiny mouths opening,
small kisses or gasps, an emerging hunger.
When does enough become too much?
In its prickly nest, the rose will be sweetly
bedecked in pink ruffles fading to white
and the sunny stamens that sing the bees.
The rose is, on its rockery ledge, steadfast.
And this is what I want to be for you.
As my complement, you are balm
and barb, rose and sticker, laughter,
silence, and on some days, nothing fits,
like rosemary’s name coming from Latin,
the ros for dew, marinus, the sea,
while its green spears are kin to mint,
nothing to do with a rose, and this rose,
named Plena for full, will swell
into a high tide of teeth,
sharks in the garden. I can’t tell you
what scares me most—the virus
or your cancer or my penchant for gin.
All I know is that the rose must be chopped
to the roots to stave off invasion,
the tumors must be made to shrink;
the rose again will thunder green,
and this metaphor fails.
People keep saying, “an abundance
of caution.” I live in the caution.
I distrust abundance. All I know
for now is this impending extravagance,
reminder we’re still clinging here and whole.
