whatever beauty was possible was only fleeting

I killed it today, and not by accident: 

each thorny branch resisting 

then giving way, no match 

for a woman with intent and loppers 

on a cold winter morning, chopping, 

and though I'm not cruel and don't hate roses, 

these particular roses always bloomed 

and died the same day, as if to say 

whatever beauty was possible 

was only fleeting, temporary, 

the way 'a rose is a rose is a rose' 

is a line that diffuses the thing in the mind 

until what it refers to 

is lost or cannot be conjured, 

and so your rose bush is not— 

not here to invoke or provoke, 

not here to dismember the mind, 

no false hope, a bloom in reverse, 

just another way to say 

I disremember you. 

[Teresa Leo 'Your Rose Bush' from Bloom in Reverse]