On Coming Upon The Phrase "Rosa Mystica" Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

to my Grandfather, Milton B. Young

and Grandmother, his Lucy



rosa mystica.

in my garden.

why, that was all of them,



all the rose bushes

my Grandfather ever planted

in one corner of our backyard



and how we regarded them,

my sister and I, being young

drinking them in



mystified they were ours

as much as for him.

and he wanted it that way.



and also, bouquets

for Grandmother.

for Mama.



each one our blossom

we wanted to save

and almost wept to see



rose petals.

the roses

weeping their lives away.



so we collected them

the unfortunate petals,

wrapped them in plastic wrap


hoping to make


rose perfume


that would stay




and we did feel

with glad hearts


when we stuck them inside

Grandmother's linen closet,

we had rescued them.



later on

they came to mouldering light

what is this?



Grandmother said.

so we took them back out to the garden

and laid them to rest



among their youngest sisters

still in bloom.

and felt a little gloomy



at our failed experiment.

so now I think

perversely, not looking up



the Latin, over catholicized,

bound to be definitions of

the phrase Rosa Mystica



this is what it means to me,



that delicate phrase...

God raised our petals up on that day

each one



a rosa mystica,

while we played

Mother, May I?



so say I.

This May.



mary angela douglas 16 may 2019