The Rose

You gave me a rose

last time we met.



I told myself

if it bloomed

our love would bloom,

& if it died-



O I did not

consider

the possibility.



It died.



Though I cut

the stem

on a slant

as my mother

taught me,

though I dropped

an aspirin

in the water,



it hung its head

like a spent cock

& died.



It stands

on my desk now-

straight green stalk,

blood-red clot

of bud

drooping

like a hanged man's

head.



Does this mean

we are doomed?

Does this mean

all lovers

are doomed?



O my love-

I have not read roses

as amulets

in seven years. . . .



Which doom

is worse?

To love

& lose?



Or to lose

love

altogether

& not care

whether roses



live or die?