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I MISSED THE ROSES CAROLINE BRICKLEY I awoke too late, dreaming of my life, and outside the rose bushes stand bare of themselves within the frame of our September window. The glass, forgetting sky and never having understood a life of unfiltered light, cannot be trusted. But in sleep, I misled myself into fields of untouched extremities quivering above closed eyelids of earth, untilled by lips. I knew then that there is no such thing as flowers, and I know now that those were never roses. Not those that peered in at me like dislodged pupils, as I clothed my skin with name. Nor those that broke and bled open against spring windows, remembering again. Not even the one I gave you that you held like an abstract figure, lost and found in the forest of your fingers. It was only a placeholder for where my hands should be. It was only a reminder that we are everywhere but where we should be and we are somehow, still, everything but what we are. Roses do not grow from earth But from the soil of your within Roses do not bloom in sky But where your skin stops And you begin 76 Brickley

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Red Cedar Review Vol. 54  

Red Cedar Review Vol. 54  

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