Nella Rose Gaynor Kane

Gaynor Kane Nella Rose

She’s looking ahead, down Market Street, and all she sees are walking palms in a dessert and what she wants is to be a resurrection plant, always thirsty, primitive, desiccated, but still alive.

All these flowers that dissolve in the rain— around every corner is a threat: of lust, of love, of hate. She wishes for a mate; someone made of clouds.

At the top of Mount Temptation, she would kiss his misty lips, hydrate herself with just one long hug, unfurl her mossy tendrils, bright and green and fresh; once more a rose in Jericho.