POETRY: Roulette Rose by Joan Swift
Submitted by spiritandhealth on Mon, 06/02/2008 - 10:29.
Issue:
2008 March/April
Article Type:
Column
Roulette Rose by Joan Swift
Commentary by
Kathleen Norris
How do I have the luck to choose by
chance
from the chilled glass case this rose, of all things, called Roulette?
After they tested you alive to see how dead the dreadful cells were,
you bring a bottle of wine called “Working Girl Red”
we pour a toast from at the kitchen counter. What luck
did you look for when you married him in the Heart of Reno Chapel
then played roulette at Harrah’s? You knew
he’d never live to see leaves tumble across the grass
like dice in craps, that loosening of the fingers
giving over to the not-yet-known.
You acknowledge the day each year. Sometimes you ride a black horse
to his grave as wind from the strait ripples your new hair.
In the morning, coffee stirs up talk and a small bird hops in a pine.
When you drive away the rose lies waiting in the dark refrigerator.
There’s a moment then when I send a husband off to chase
the wish of laying that rose on another’s husband’s grave.
Already the bud has suddenly flared open, already is starting to droop,
So when the ferry leaves its own white blossoms on the water, nothing’s lost.
Now here is a girl at the flower counter telling me
never to place roses close to oranges, lemons, limes.
A rose wants to be near the bakery.
Bread of life.
For Tess
from the chilled glass case this rose, of all things, called Roulette?
After they tested you alive to see how dead the dreadful cells were,
you bring a bottle of wine called “Working Girl Red”
we pour a toast from at the kitchen counter. What luck
did you look for when you married him in the Heart of Reno Chapel
then played roulette at Harrah’s? You knew
he’d never live to see leaves tumble across the grass
like dice in craps, that loosening of the fingers
giving over to the not-yet-known.
You acknowledge the day each year. Sometimes you ride a black horse
to his grave as wind from the strait ripples your new hair.
In the morning, coffee stirs up talk and a small bird hops in a pine.
When you drive away the rose lies waiting in the dark refrigerator.
There’s a moment then when I send a husband off to chase
the wish of laying that rose on another’s husband’s grave.
Already the bud has suddenly flared open, already is starting to droop,
So when the ferry leaves its own white blossoms on the water, nothing’s lost.
Now here is a girl at the flower counter telling me
never to place roses close to oranges, lemons, limes.
A rose wants to be near the bakery.
Bread of life.
For Tess
LIFE IS A GAMBLE
We boldly take our chances: a medical test to see if
the “dreadful cells” are gone; a marriage in Reno to a man who does not have
long to live. Daily, we commit ourselves to the spin of the wheel. This poem
reminds us that even our random acts can have unexpected meaning. Selecting a
rose from a chilled florist’s case, we discover that it is called “Roulette.”
Just the right name, to help us both celebrate and mourn, and give ourselves
over, as we must, to the next roll of the dice, “to the not-yet-known.”
