The Last Rose
By Sinead Tyrone
The last rose stands sentinel
beside your driveway, eagerly awaits
your return. It does not know
you are gone. Your books cry out
for their reader. The spices in your kitchen
long to be shaken into some new,
adventurous dish. Your map of Ireland
is desperate for you to plan another trip.
The Japanese pond wants clearing,
answering machine announces
you have eight new calls,
and I feel like the invader
I am protecting your house against
as I walk through hallowed rooms.
SINEAD TYRONE lives in Cheektowaga. This is her first published poem.
By Carlie Clark Nikolai
You are nine years gone, My Love,
As is my love, as well.
What remains I pour into the vials we created,
And the bouquet lingers in my nostrils, ever-present.
I conjure it up on spring mornings
As I pull the weeds and scour the stone,
Tracing my fingers through the water-darkened script:
CARLIE CLARK NIKOLAI lives in Cheektowaga