Rose Jam

With knees foam-sheathed

she pins the brown soil

unwilling body of earth

until sundown it’s hers

the grandmother, mother, widow

whisperer to the world

beneath her, families

of spiders scurry and ants

dance for the priestess

snipping carmine planets

from their sky that hit the surface exploded

petals crushed between

her sandalled toes

rose jam boiling in the air

she continues her ruthless work

for thankless generations


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© Brad Cohen 2020

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