I don’t remember inviting her along today,
that Prickly Rose, but everywhere I go,
she goes. I watch her pout around the kitchen
as she makes breakfast, her prickers falling
into the cereal, spines in the eggs. And she bristles
her way into the bedroom closet to
put on her clothes, daring to wear the same
outfit as I. She fusses her way to the car,
leaves a trail of bleary discontent,
then drives off in a huff, harrumphing
at beauty, at bliss. All morning, I watch her
from a distance, as far away as I can.
I tell her, “You know, you can choose
at any time to lose those thorns.”
She glares at me, like, “whatever,”
and goes back to her muttering.
“I see,” I say, giving her space.
She smells as if she burnt her eggs.
So I tease her, and make up new lyrics to.
“Miss Prickle regrets
she’s unable to smile today, Madam.”
and “The gripes are high but I’m holding on.”
I marvel at her insistence on holding
on to aggravation, frustration, annoyance,
stress. I mean, look at her now,
snarling there in the seat I’m in,
intent on her own misery. Oh Prickly Rose.
I want to hold her, but she will not
be held. So I watch her, let myself
get curious. Smile as she chooses to frown.
She’ll come around eventually, I tell myself.
Until then, I wonder at how she manages
to hold that scowl on her forehead
so furrowed, so deep, how she glowers
so impressively long.