The roses overstayed their welcome, 

arriving with a flagrant knock on the door 

one spring afternoon. We did not know 

how to handle them. They sized up each room, 

rearranging furniture whenever we entered, 

wafted themselves over our favorite couch, 

leafed through unopened books in our library. 

We woke with blood dripping from our palms. 

What did they want from us? The mail piled up 

like dried petals at the entryway. We woke 

to the smell of dying bodies, sweet swell of pink, 

murky water, motes stirring in morning light 

before settling at the center of our table just after you left.