A Rain of Roses

Dee Rimbaud
ISSUE 2006-1
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A Rain of Roses I fell from the sky, blazing a trail of violent flowers: orange as caesarean sex, red as shiva-shakti, crimson as you. My petals were torn away in the scorched wind: the Sahara wind of you, mad mistral mistress, you plucked at me with triggered fingers, plucked at me till I was but dry stems and withered seeds. You plucked and I was undone: I fell to the ground, a dust of forgetting, smothering crops and blanking out the sun.