Perhaps you'd never braid my hair,
or save me space on crowded days—
but if my child began to cry,
you’d rock her slow, in a mothered sway.
You might scoff when my laugh spills wide,
or mutter when I’ve stayed too long,
but should my silence fill with tears,
you’d hum me a half-known song.
You might curse me for hogging the sink,
and sigh when I eclipse your space—
but if a man dismissed my presence,
you’d grab my hand without a trace.
While the other half fights, and shouts, and kills,
we move with a memory of our own—
a knowing of what it is to be
the rose that’s meant to guide boys home.
So when my stem begins to sway,
you hold me firm, until I stand.
And when her petals start to fade,
I’m there to paint them pink by hand.
And if he dares to ask you why
your sweet fragrance has dulled,
and your light has grown sore—
I’ll be the one to whisper back:
“Remind him of the stench of war.”