A Worn Rose
Lola Ridge
Where to-day would a dainty buyer
Imbibe your scented juice,
Pale ruin with a heart of fire;
Drain your succulence with her lips,
Grown sapless from much use…
Make minister of her desire
A chalice cup where no bee sips—
Where no wasp wanders in?
Close to her white flesh housed an hour,
One held you… her spent form
Drew on yours for its wasted dower—
What favour could she do you more?
Yet, of all who drink therein,
None know it is the warm
Odorous heart of a ravished flower
Tingles so in her mouth’s red core…
