He'd come to water them.
They were ashamed of him --
his weak white hands, his stoop.
They pulled him down.
He fought back, weeping: "I have brought you
water, defended you from aphids."

He's hiding in the house now, bloody.
They wait for rain.

This is how roses are:
they dream of strength.
There is no mercy in them.

Roses want to eat the ivy,
fill the oaks with blood.
They want kisses and hatred,
chocolate and vengeance;

like teenage girls who dream of suicide,
of anything that would end the world,
instead of having to be beautiful tomorrow.

Benjamin Rosenbaum lives in Basel, Switzerland, with his wife and baby daughter, where in addition to scribbling fiction and poetry, he programs in Java (well) and plays rugby (badly). A story of his appeared in the January 31 issue of Writer Online, and another will appear in the July issue of Fantasy & Science Fiction. This is his first published poem. Visit his Web site to learn more about his writing.