Monday, April 24, 2006

The Flowers That You Left

Dear Heart,

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.



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