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