until she hung her head
in your flower bed. You scorched
her with the sun, then blinded her
in shade, until her petals turned

to blades. Just as her mother pulled
her from her roots to make a
colorful corsage. She wilted attached
in her arms. You plucked her from

the garden to place on
your lapel. You wore her well! But she
died when you took off the suit and
tie. Now she’s flat and faded. If you touch her

she’ll crumble. Even her thorns
have rusted into brittle mittens. She sits in
a leather-bound book, as a space saver,
page 43, in the crook of a page. She's placed

face down. The letters tattooed to her crown.