Late December.

dull hums of boredom
fill our warm car,
but my dad notices the
lights sprinkled along River Road.
"For us living this close to a shrine,
we’ve never been here.
Let's check it out."
Red winter blood rushes
to my lips and christens
their soft bow.
Now I'm thinking about
the way John Lennon's
husky voice sings about
Mother Mary.
My penny loafers click on the
cobbled path,
my sweater slips off my shoulder,
winter wind brushes past
the jeans clinging to my thighs.
It knots my hair, and
I think of how a smiling aunt
once compared it to
Jim Morrison’s.
The click on the cobblestone stops.
There lay thousands of roses piled on a hill,
cascading down, painting a mural
under the bruised winter sky.
They’re like an opiate, heavy in
the back of my throat.
I can’t help but laugh at the
picturesque spontaneity,
how this random fling,
this left turn on River Road,
became so beautiful.
My laughs are clear and sharp,
piercing the night, because when I
press my face into the flowers,
their velvet petals meet
my lips, like some spontaneous kiss.
The night is my cathedral.
I tug the sweater back onto my shoulder,
give the roses a goodbye,
and walk back to the car.