Don't pity the rice
Aunt Josephine
had said,
during her usual mirth
and merriment,
and we wondered
what she'd meant.
Now, with news
of her earthly passing,
her mantra is remembered
and its meaning,
made clear:
Rice, my children,
will likely fall to the floor
as it's poured,
a grain that's grown
for nothing
and yet it grows,
in tawny fields and tall,
the height of pride
and triumph,
not concerned if it's crushed
by a farmer's boots
or spit aside in mills;
neither worried if stuck
to the bottom of pots
nor wedged between the teeth
of a fork;
and, if it's not to be consumed
as food,
it will leap in the air
in a second of joy,
to be trodden
by a bridegroom's shoe,
perhaps caught
in a wedded wife's veil,
swept in a pan
by a janitor's broom,
resume its endless celebration
with the dust.
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.
