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Fiction and Poetry Contest


Poetry, Third Place

Arroz is not a Rose—though each is full
of starch and, simmering, savors of a spice.
But only one, full-blown, will lovely fall,
consumed by that from which she will arise.
“Arose” is also not a Rose. If both
are action-packed, the first is clearly past
arising, word already fledged and flown;
the second pierces presently the chest.
Nevertheless, “arrows” is not a Rose:
although they share a thorny issue,
just one has sharpness of my own, composed
of keen, consanguine blood and tissue.
A Rose is not Eros, that living dart—
but she was born to crack my frozen heart.

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