The Flowers That You Left
Let the apples be made of felt, and let the
ceiling drop down upon the floor so we
dance upside down. Your flowers will
remain. I feed them aspirin so they will
live a long time. I feed them vitamin C
and B12 and olive oil for good luck.
But they curl and hiss at me with
their desert-colored mouths. Their petals
fall and writhe like worms. They look like
upside down hearts, like left-over valentines.
They stand in front of a mirror, the better
to multiply, the better to watch.
In the bedroom, I catch a whiff of them,
part swamp, part dimestore perfume. I
build them an altar, offer them meat.
They are tiny hateful gods, nonetheless.
Their pink is a tissue made of lies.
Everyday there seems to be more. In
my dreams, they are angels with swords,
hacking off my hair. At times, I would
like to gather them in my fist, but they
I hide all the envelopes. Who knows
what messages they send, what they
report to you?
I am going to call a man to remove them.
Or, failing that, I am moving to another state.
Thanks again for the bouquet.