A Dozen Wilted Roses: Modern Beauty

Maybe it looks differently in low light,
hooka smoke swirling lazily:
cover-up and dark eye-shadow
her hair a weekly canvas
and it's worth it to "make pretty colors."

In the morning
pockmarked face
crocheted beanie hiding brittle, fried hair

"Once the damage is done,
there's not much we can do.
The marks will remain
...unless we scrape back to the dermis."

If we erase
how many years of scars
who will she be??

A Dozen Wilted Roses: I. Scientifically Proven

A pile of unfamiliar bound text sits unexplained on the table as I saunter into the kitchen, stretching off a good night's sleep. Skimming the spines, I find extensive studies of the properties of TiSO4 and other ceramics. Bubbie's singsong voice, from behind, clarifies: "These were Papa's dissertations." An image of the man materializes before me: thick glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, oxygen tube strapped to his face, reading the newspaper in this chair, the one nearest the cereal cabinet. "Hey, sidekick!" he calls from the office, in a clear voice. My childish footsteps patter down the hall, and I hear the jingling of quarters that I am allowed to sort. Glancing up on the wall, I notice a family portrait, back when Papa's glasses have black frames and his tawny hair covers his head. I glance and wonder what it is like to grow old, collecting coins and crosswords.