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