Poetry pages
number 2
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Poem and illustration by Anjo Lafin
Mister Lincoln

The sixteenth president died
on the fifteenth,
in a season of burgeoning,
in the midst of April,
was shot on the fourteenth,
and lived forever on the thirteenth,
in the year of '65.

In '65 last century
we still believed in freedom
and justice, the abolition
of oppression and more.
John F was already history,
the 35th president,
fourth victim of gunfire,
and the 20th and 25th long gone.
In '64 a rose was born,
proud, of good parentage,
with 35 petals,
and every one for Abraham.
In '65 it won a coveted award.

The rose grows
in my garden.
The first bloom made me think of love.
It is a hybrid.
It is called Mister Lincoln.
Its petals are the deepest red
of blood.
It has no need to fear the bullet
but is prone still to beheading.
Over 2 millennia ago
Sappho would have called
a rose, the queen for her,
anything but mister.