There is rust on the flower,
two generations of weather on iron,
and still, somehow, there is beauty,
an ornamental cage, no less dangerous
for the years past and gates removed.
There is strength here, cold and frightening,
at least to those who have lived behind the bars
our minds have created, that others have created
in the name of love.
About this poem
I have lived in loving prisons before. Most likely, you have too. It’s not until I found something different that I realized how healthy love could be.
Dancing on a Tuesday,