Listen, lover, when you asked, I told
you, "Bring me wild roses" -- well, I meant
it like the princess who, unloving, sent
her swain to find a star. Since it is cold

December and no wild roses are
alive -- but you come back, your hands and arms

in tatters, like the fragrant feral things
Resisted you, as I have, with their claws.
What kind of idiot would think to bring
me what I asked for, when no binding clause

can hold me to the promises I made?
Did you collect me stories with those blooms?
You're spattered with their barbarous perfume --
but tell me all you saw, and I'll be swayed.