The petals of the roses swell
like blown glass, languorous and plump,

an easy gush beneath my tires
down the driveway. At eighteen

I thought I could leave home. I hadn’t yet
met the parts of myself

I keep as an unmarked grave:
the dish of grandpa’s gold

rings on the dresser, a pot of yellowing
English ivy stained in rings up the terracotta

walls from overwatering at one house
and then the next, my uncle’s brass cartridge

lighter, the rosary wrapped around
my passport, copper beads leaving

indents in the leather from the press
of my sweaty palms—letting them live

in me even as I leave town,
all hard metal muffled
by petals