She would be the Phoenix

she thought

the one to rise from Ashes
 
 
~~a smoke~~

she’d always loved Ashes

maybe more than Fire itself

for she was a rare

Bird

a carin’

bird of paradise

of noble callin’

planted decades since on True Love’s

own lane

Red Rose Lane

the only place she went untended…

vining for him

crying petals for him

turning leaves for him

skewered by fletched arrow

she grew wild at

Gyms

transplanting in shower of

thrown bouquet

to No. Hope

where roots rotted

and thorns rankled

and crowns tumbled Deadheads

>forced graft<

and systemic pesticides ignited

(one extra Sunny day)

catching garden stakes afire

surrounding & combusting her.

Charred.

She moves in a Dream, now

lost over Moons

wings, and petal-ed paradise

shuddering

Blooms folding unto themselves

~Leaves only~

…

no loft

no bloom

no flame.

 
PAM is so

effervescent…

’til Sun-day she was,

anyway
 

greasy lil bitch

a combination of Foil

& cheap Pan burnt the

tempered surface essential to non-stick

while tanning

and that’s so passé

she brown Bags it now

waving to Mike on highest setting

–the one for popped corn–

sellin’ pane

Windows don’t need.

©Karen Robiscoe