Concrete Rose
There is a Rose
Growing through a crack in my sidewalk. Hell,
Might even be the reason for the cracked sidewalk.
No one says that it comes from the forest
Or the meadow
They say it comes from the impossible.
Its every shoot having to sprout while being
Trampled.
After which its stem had to grow while constantly
Being crushed.
To bloom so, was a victory
To keep doing so, a tragic glory.
So much honor
Defined by pain.
A pain that only became a part of the identity
Because surviving long enough to pass it on was
A part of the triumph.
A point illustrated by every Concrete Rose I know
Trying to make it back to the meadow
Or the forest
Where they must have come from.
Where growin’ ain’t so hard.
‘Cause a lot of people think it’s beneath them to become
Part of a bouquet
But it’s definitely better than being a bastard
Who has to grow into a Messiah.
A too familiar story
I wonder how different Jesus’ story would be
If he bore resentment on the way to the cross
And cursed the purpose given by the one who had cultivated him
And Is it wrong?
For a Rose to want to stab the hands that
Wish to pick it?
An’ If I Parallel:
Is it wrong?
For a person to want to stab the hands that
Wish to lift him?
Always either onto a dais
Or onto an altar
Or once you’re within a coffin
As if you haven’t been trapped with the smell
Of Death
Since you were birthed by Desperation.
I wonder what dead things must make up your fertilizer
When you literally grow from under
The street.
Like Damn, Don’t you smell that shit?
In the compost?
See it in the way the dogs dig?
Panting with the giddy guilt of hiding
Desiccation under a picture of prosperity.
Bones under a lawn.
Man’s best friend
These things
Only just allow me to picture the perversion.
The satisfied faces of those who hide a
Genocide under the tar
And commissioned them an unending Trail of Tears.
The carnage that I grew up on
That I internalized
That became a part of my identity…
Like the Concrete Rose
I don’t know which forest
Or meadow I came from,
But in owning my Nature
I bloomed a miracle.
Stratusfier is a Boston based poet. “Stratus meaning to spread and fier meaning pride. I believe that poems carry an innate pride that readers can feed off of and carry with them so I try to impart that.”
Luis Lázaro Tijerina was born in Salina, Kansas. Mr. Tijerina has a Master of Art degree in history, concentration being military history and diplomacy. He is a published author of military theory, short stories, essays and poetry. Mr. Tijerina resides in Vermont.