The Rose

By Jean Valentine b. 1934 Jean Valentine

a labyrinth,

as if at its center,

god would be there—

but at the center, only rose,

where rose came from,

where rose grows—

& us, inside of the lips & lips:

the likenesses, the eyes, & the hair,

we are born of,

fed by, & marry with,

only flesh itself, only its passage

—out of where? to where?

Then god the mother said to Jim, in a dream,

Never mind you, Jim,

come rest again on the country porch of my knees.

Source: Little Boat (Wesleyan University Press, 2007)