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Fabric Carnations, or My Dog was a Vegetarian

The flowers in my house are a fraud, marigolds that never wither, forsythia forever fake with vibrant yellow that doesn’t fade, daisies dotted about as if I had an eternal supply, the faint of sight and squinters never guessing the awful truth, nor those who call, congested, unaware they’re counterfeit. For years, before I built what’s bogus, this simulated sham of silk, every bluebell, phlox and lily were rich in wondrous redolence,

concealing the smell of “Spot” – my shaggy, shedding dog with neither blotch nor original name, who’d eat the roses when in season, plucking petals when backs were turned. The dog was mine for a decade, had a couch he claimed as his own, an old stuffed cat with which he played but never thought to bite or chew. When he died, I was told to go back to blooms, genuine, the ones that I’d discarded after "Spot" had overate, rid the rooms of imitations, inhale the fragrant scent of life. It’s all a fabrication I replied: aromas from the freshly cut, telling the world they’re bleeding,


their beauty-in-a-vase, embalming; that flowers too love living as much as a man or departed pet, that my forgeries are better, no perfumes to pronounce what’s dead.


Andreas Gripp



Andreas Gripp

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