by Evangeline Eames
Our roses are not store bought
They are dripping and messy
And drunkenly stagger over your garden wall
Leaves and vines fucking and entwined
They press against the doors and force their way in
Weaving and creeping across the kitchen floor
Limbs snaring around your spindle backed chairs
They dig in their nails and crawl up your cupboards
And stretch up to embrace the cast iron pot
Where our bruised and wild hearts simmer
Sunday, April 27, 2014
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