THE STUDENT 

I thought it would be 

the perfect ritual.

I really did.

But it wasn’t.

I wanted to do to Beauty 

what Beauty 

had done to me.

I thought it would burn 

like I did. 

But it didn’t.

The petals, the perfume,

the thorns 

of the freshly cut blossom

just wouldn’t 

catch fire.

It refused

to turn to ash

in the drizzling rain

and under 

the unblinking eye

of the magic mountain

at my back.

Because it didn’t burn

I had to throw 

the whole damn rose 

into the Shasta headwaters.

The wild current

should have carried 

the hardly charred blossom 

downsriver.

But it didn’t.

Instead it got caught

in a bevy 

of branches 

and rock.

And there it stayed,

so very far 

from the ocean

I meant it to travel to.

I had my reasons 

for this ritual. 

But my reasons 

weren’t reason enough

for loss to leave me

the way I imagined 

it would.

Maybe Beauty’s defiance 

was her way 

of saying: 

I have more, 

so much more

to teach you. 

You are, 

after all,

my favorite 

student.