I had three of the prettiest petals, though I have never seen them
Crystals, little dynasties of brilliance
They were of my creation and mistakenly in my care
I was undeserving to acquire the red, gracious leaves
Gorgeous rose pearls cannot hit the floor
The petals coiled and spun feather-like in my survival
I am guilty. I let them go.

Anesthesia brings false clarity, incorruptible comas
And I missed the rose petals rain
They came across me gently and traveled
To small, overpowering seas and cold desert sands
They were drifting as the medicine contained me
The red beauties, a deep orange hue in the center
The center now convincing the tips—orange all over like September
My mind shades the petals many colors

Because I have never seen them, they come to me in various hues every day
I know, however, that they were first red; perfect and pure
The nurse told me so, and she even partly smiled
No matter how they come to me in my dreams
They are perfect petals, honeyed and charming, falling on me
And each time, I kiss them individually and slowly—lingering the sentiment of love
And then, once again, I let them go.

About the Author

B. Collette Davis

B. Collette Davis is a new and upcoming writer from Philadelphia. Bringing an unapologetic, raw edge to urban tales and poetry, the graduate student (University of Pennsylvania) hopes to produce work that is cherished and ultimately published, bringing her many Christian Louboutin shoes.