Serafine Rose’s Birthday Comes
The garden celebrants will say
She’s eighty-nine this year
And sees the world through sweet and tender eyes
But they are selling dime store jewelry
To the sugar cane boss.
She’s the stuff of knives and hecatombs
Who carves surrendered thighs to bone
By feel through blood and cataracts
While chanting praises of an older grace.
Up and down the river
Come and tell her
Secrets she will take
To the grave.