It is not by accident
that rotting flowers
are the ones we keep.

We love the dying;
the dead entertains us
with memories
written into their petals,

like a stigmata.
We separate the rose
to dissect its beauty.

What was once a velvet
bulb, with back-bending
stomachs, is now a seed
with its remains

scattered around the floor.
We play with carbon monoxide
and eternal sleep, wanting

to drive into that realm
and then back home
so we could tell our colleagues

that the flowers are,
indeed, living
on the other side.

And so we give them to
our little prom girls
so new and glistening
while they take them home

and dry them
upside-down, a hang-man
already in life.

01/02/2006

Posted on 01/03/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky