My Dog was Vegetarian, or Fabric Carnations

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