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Josiah A.R. Cox

In Memory of Rose Orlich

Hardly a show of Elvis velvet
here, no cliché splayed in a vase.
The gesture sequesters nil
of love and the sum
of us: we curate
nature into bouquets.
The old ladies at Heritage Park,
who must have their hair
done once a week, gripe
on behalf of these plants which need
someone’s love. I’m considering,
thus, the gardener’s shears,
as its blades sweat with the burden
of motley mobs, each
crooked, thorny, knobbed.
Only the heart of a gardener
regards the whole enough
to cut what’s wilted or thin
so blooms can bloom
again, multiply the dividend:
roses, roses, roses.
How many green thumbs
are rubbed gingerly, untenderly
pricked but unwilling
to let the body go to hell, to forgo
its bliss and bite, its intimate
quirks and particular
blights? Then flower power.
Likewise, perhaps more difficult and rarer,
there is the trust that does not balk
at its own shaved head, gutted frame
like asparagus stalks. Come again
in a light May rain. My Lord,
they are outstanding.

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Josiah A.R. Cox
Poet & Editor

Josiah A.R. Cox is from Kansas City, Missouri. His poems have appeared in Christianity and Literature, Trinity House Review, Fathom Magazine, and The Blue Mountain Review. He is an assistant editor for The Hopkins Review and currently lives in Baltimore.

Photography by El Carito