The Word for Rose

the land of green ginger fish rotten fish the scent of roses dad’s roses green flock wallpaper tastes bitter foul-mouthed parrots Buster smells it wa’n’t me sticky strip curtains elderberries bubbling in demi-johns toby-faced pug jugs faded cocktail roses tea roses salmon paste sandwiches pools results on a Saturday afternoon sorry are you using the line telephone voice day in lieu lard on toast chicken eating dog roses warm creosote Dad siphons petrol you med it up Dad twitching to Sandy Nelson a blue belly dancer twists with a Viking neighbours call 999 narcotic scent of roses prima ballerina roses Peace roses Albertine roses climbing roses. Dad’s roses.

 

I fall hard on shimmering 

tarmac into a land of bruised birds 

that crack. A land where hearts harden, 

 

spiders bite and women twitch.

Mirages and miracles are every day.

I learn that there is much to fear 

 

from sweet music and my eyes drift  

to meadows starred with flowers:

celeste, azure, turchese, oltramarine.

 

My jaw slackens and my tongue rolls.

I drink deep and sleep.

All roads lead back to colder seas. 

 

I turn celeste. No, blue. I turn bloody blue.  Nithered to the bone. And then we would have laughed until we cried. Conditional. No. The past is the past. 

 

I will take stones and lay my fossils down in spiral patterns: mother grandmother great-grandmother great-granddaughter granddaughter daughter. 

 

I will build walls. Footings line in double row. Scapple hump backed tops fill the gaps. Grit sits snug. Batter the walls and place throughs.

 

When I lay down my tongue will buck back to northern vowels.   

 

I will forget the word for rose.