Song of The Rose By Brooks Haxton

Her memory of the rose

may yet grow less from little,

for all her husband knows,

though to his mind what grows

more troubling, like a riddle

in his memory, is the rose

bruised under the blows

he dealt her. No acquittal,

no tenderness he knows

can mend, no plea transpose,

or make the least less brittle,

her memory of the rose.

Blooms full-blown may close,

and love turn noncommittal.

This, by now, he knows.

Since, when she left, they chose

to let the lawyers settle,

her memory of the rose

is hers: that's all he knows.