MUSICAL Poem: Fifty Years After Rhythm 0 (November 8th 2024), by Spencer Watson

The cruelest thing
is a rose. It is sharp but it is beautiful,
so I hear,
and the animals make me hold it to
my breast. Label me,
standing here obedient
as vile. The skin beneath my collarbone
is broken, but even then,
I resemble the gorgeous women
in the paintings men render,
where tears are only beautiful. I am prettier
when my makeup is smeared down my cheeks,
when it is clear I need saving, and I agree.
I have two pointer fingers and a revolver
aimed at the beating in my chest.
There is no regret, not resting
in me, anyway. When I come alive,
they watch the revolver clatter
with disgust. I cannot tell if it is
me they are ashamed of
or themselves.
The animals startle.
I am not a cartoon princess. I am
their father’s America. I am
the End and the beginning of life,
one hand curled around the plush
of my stomach. I am a sight even when
tears blur my vision. I am the field soldiers fight on,
and die on, and are buried
under. The last thing I lose
is the rose. You can’t tell
I ever held it.

Author: poetryfest

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