THE SILK FLOWERS

He gave me silk flowers
because he knew I hated to
watch a living thing die.

I put them beside the
kitchen sink.
a group of well-dressed
women leaning in
on one another's
fleshy arms, lips
pursed around heated
gossip, chests inflated
like mallards.

I watered them every day
until the glass vase overflowed
and they bobbed like corks.

Sometimes, when
a breeze swept through
the open window
they would dance, throwing
their heads back, and
beckoning me with long
fingernails, painted rouge.

I was curious once,
and touched their petals.
They were not
velvet-skin-smooth like
a baby's blushing cheek,
the flesh of an orange.

Nor did they smell like
earthy things, my mother's
old perfume, the one
that reeked of church
services, shoulder pads,
and hugs that took
your breath away,
choked you.

To the touch,
they felt like flaking
skin, and smelt
like the inside of
a bandage.

I remember the funeral
for the silk flowers,
the one we held in
the backyard.
I said: I hope,
someday, there would
be a reason to love them.

They were never
a glimpse of god.