In the morning, I dissected the face

of a rose. The flayed petals fell apart

like honesty. Out of its flesh

grew obsidian and basalt and all

the dark trauma of the earth.

I asked of the rose and it opened.

I kept its red in jars on my dresser.

In the morning, a stone black crow

cawed to me from the cleaved branches

of the dogwood. I knew rawness,

and I thought of you, figure formed

in the stain of color. I was the crow

and you were a tree of roses.