Roses in January

by Liz Minette

Yes, they are real,
strategically placed
in a refrigerated,
mirrored flower case,
point of sale at the
supermarket checkstand.

I select a red dozen
from the pale plastic
container overstuffed
with many-colored bouquets,
and which holds less
than an inch of water.

These roses probably
journeyed many miles -
heavily packaged,
bumped and jostled
against each other -
yet my desire for roses
in January outweighs all
this as their dozen heads
nod like satin buddhas
in my arms on the way
to the checkout.

I take them home
and divide them
between two vases.

Six stems each for the
tall blue glass vase,
originally delivered
with a gaudy bouquet
of sunset-tipped
carnations and fake
autumn leaves.
We kept the vase
because its color
is like water moving
under ice.

The other six roses
fill a clay jar,
the one my mother said
always leaks.

Days later, the roses
have unfurled some
of their petals,
dropping them to the
foot of the jar where
they lay like wet silk.

They drop their petals,
some curled, blackened now
around the edges like
an effigy set afire,
placed in the river, sent
downstream in memory.




 Liz Minette has been writing for about 10 years and some publication credits include Earth's Daughters, Third Wednesday, Poetry Victims and Nerve Cowboy.  She finds herself employed at a community access television station in Duluth, Minnesota and djs for a woman's music program radio show.