Hydra

We meant to prune the roses someday,

but didn’t. Now a single monstrous branch

bursts out of the jasmine, weighted down

by long-necked heads 

untamed by shears.

Where one is severed, another sprouts

into a frenzy of shattered spirals

(It is a pleasure to behead)

Red-clenched buds burst open and fall,

and leaves behind on each lonely stem, 

a naked face

a green-petalled star.