From roses I build my nation state.
Roses plucked one-by-one from the border of your kingdom.
I can’t get the stem length to be even, but there are so many flower buds that it doesn’t matter.
You notice the roses, they are gorgeous and inarguable,
and you hate me for paying attention to what has been growing.
You should have found the roses first, but now my basket is full and yours is not.
My fingertips pulse from the thorns, and you wish yours did too.
You challenge me to be as plentiful as my roses,
to injure you like my tiny fingertip blood specks.
I am shy and bad when put on the spot, so
We will go to war at dawn, and I will hate every moment of it.
/
I design my campaign in rows and columns.
In arrows I sketch the border between a loss and a victory.
When the path to victory is clear, I decide I prefer a loss,
but I trace the arrows back and fall asleep
while our people place bets and gamble on our fate.
/
It is a violent crusade- gory and stupid and awful.
I disprove your militia,
raise my flag in reprieve, and walk to you.
A ruined soldier grabs my ankle like there is something I could do to help.
I look down at her and remind her
Your life is a miracle. Respect it like a precious gem.
I stop and find you again, annoyed that I must now decide twice to walk to you.
/
In the mud I stoop to your level,
scuff my knees and fear it is awkward.
I shock your suffering with a miscalculated laugh.
You are bleeding out when I read your tarot
on the dirt in front of our dying troops.
The weather is beautiful and every breath could be your last.
I tell you to become healthy if you can.
You’re close to death, and I feel your fear, but this is a moment of suffering,
and you are worth the extra effort.
I start to become drowsy, and decide to nap, level with the rest of the massacre.
/
When I wake you will be alive or dead.
It is a shame to have had to try so hard.
Perhaps I should have merely threatened a harvest.
But I found the roses,
and from roses I build my nation state.
PLUTO BLOOMING 