FROZEN ROSES

I’m making claim to it
As its been by passed with no aura of its own;
No hereditary good looks
And nothing of a greater value
Except the changes that only poets laugh at
In its dead freeze on the periphery of seasonal changes,
I find it easy to substitute
The dark nose pinch
Of a Mausoleum sealed in layered ice,
The poking interference of commercial cards
Espousing love
In overdoses of sweets and ribboned flowers,
Delivered by husky lads to women,
Who almost guess,
They’ll hear the bell and shivering in long robes,
Take it to some tabled centerpiece
To expose it to the few who make an “in and out”
Visit on their way to gossiping hot news;
Electrifying late morning conversations…
Mother had no such deliveries then,
Except the final papers in which the state
Explained how urgently these things needed to
Be signed to transfer ownership of her child;
Completed in a minute and followed by an
Even colder draft, when they shut the door.
It’s a time few wanted,
Living on the edge of endurance, for persistence sake’
And little more.
Early on, I laid claim to it
Realizing it would be funneled into forced forgetfulness.
Like the hours preceding death of
Someone loved enough, but not too long,
Which makes loving so pure
As the hints of imperfections were not
Permitted to cast a shadow on later
Years and disagreements!
Father was in a drunk tank
Where mother had visited long enough
To believe, she also might belong.
I dehydrated in the foundling ward
Where vomiting and wretching alone,
Made us feel like one family…
Safely I laid claim to this
Where no one else would vie with me
For ownership;
that space between
Hallmark cards and flowers
And a Butcher’s freezer where every kind of
Flesh seemed to be on sale
For dinners which were never cooked.

Ken Siegelman
Brooklyn Poet Laureate
October 26, 2006