The Roses by Janice Krasselt Tatter

(for Karin)

It was my first birthday gift to her--

twelve Taj Mahal deep-red roses. I bought them

at Kroger beside pineapples, tomatoes

on the vine. She cut them underwater

at an angle, filled the cobalt blue vase

with plant food, water. They were

as lovely and elegant as a crystal chandelier,

and she set them in the dining room.

On day seven she moved them

to the mahogany dresser in our bedroom,

and each night as she filled the vase

with tepid water, I’d watch her smile

before she’d close her eyes, then lower

her face to smell them rose by rose.

She placed them in the living room

on the twelfth day. We expected

to be picking up petals, rearranging

stale, wilting flowers

but almost as if were characters

in a romance novel, our lives suspended

in fiction, the roses had opened even more,

fanning out in mouths of loveliness.   ​