Joy
Jean Patou, 1930
After you say my beauty
is irrelevant—never mind
the infinite jasmine of my afternoons,
raw blossoms opening
to the air—it’s true
I mourn for a while.
That all my roses should go
unloved. This breaks me
like a bottle knocked
from the edge of a vanity.
And even when you return,
having decided, yes,
my garden is a world
you want to wander through,
I can’t forget.
If you touch me now,
I rub dirt across your face.
I am briar thorns and animal.
