Molly McQuade

Minnesota snapping turtles clutched by little cities are wet busts of moonstone wreathed in scum, the gray self sugared, half a lot of granite phlegm stopped upon a chaise longue, that incoming pod of him dunked, thorny hooves aswim. Lichen licked him, then he quivered in the stem, and didactic stoicism stitched him tight with a neat twine. Even when tapped on the back by a barefoot tricyclist with a bulging wheaten midriff, he does not respond except that a flagellant paddling worm nested in the necropolis of his nape twists in disgust under the skin, keeping all the grim social hate safe in him.

Why do roses need their thorns? Some things are little known. But thorns of roses spring and seize the surface of  fey airs before the roses come. I’ve seen thorns huddle in a harmony alone, hunkered down on green, wiry canes, smoothed blades of whipping rose stalks, and curl their polished tridents to night’s call. They are like stars digging into firmament with such desire, you don’t quite get it, and so healthy that they almost have to wound, or like bodies that can’t be argued, borrowed, tamed. The touch of a thorn is a wry, deep telling of the senses not to bloom without a wish to, without belief  in pain to hold us true.