SOME DAY A SUDDEN CRAVING

Old blood goes bad.

Only freshly siphoned blood
leaks new life
into veins,

and so, at the weekend
he comes home
with bottled refuse blood

to feed the roses:

white, with no blush
rising.  Innocence of Borgia,
the Pontiff's kin;

thorns tucked away
in thicket leaves.  Beguiling
kitten roses.  Claws
straining in velvet lairs.

Old blood
goes bad in storage,

but sated with mild
hallucinogens, his roses
thirst for something real.

They smile at him.

	- Barbara A. Holland

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Read more by Barbara A. Holland at The Poet's Press

Poem used by permission of The Poet's Press.

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