The Rose

You gave me a rose last time we met. I told myself if it bloomed our love would bloom, & if it died- O I did not consider the possibility. It died. Though I cut the stem on a slant as my mother taught me, though I dropped an aspirin in the water, it hung its head like a spent cock & died. It stands on my desk now- straight green stalk, blood-red clot of bud drooping like a hanged man's head. Does this mean we are doomed? Does this mean all lovers are doomed? O my love- I have not read roses as amulets in seven years. . . . Which doom is worse? To love & lose? Or to lose love altogether & not care whether roses live or die?