She Couldn’t Stand Cut Flowers, So I Bought Them in the Hopes that She Would Haunt Me

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I

I hear that life is where love waters hurt, those thirsty flowers.

And death is where love presses petals —

the shapes of heartbreak — into rock.

That something the flowers once lent to the eye might last,

except that nothing lasts: might linger.

Might manifest: the look you gave me

when you saw in us the house we hadn't yet built,

your head in my lap as I sat with my back against the couch,

my ass numb on the cold, hard floor. We planned every inch:

the foyer, bedrooms, kitchen, greenhouse, gardens,

orchard, dog runs, disability contingencies,

but we didn't plan on your heart failure before the down payment.

II

Every shop in town that sells flowers, I bought them out.

Wanted to fill our bedroom, floor to ceiling.

It takes more flowers than you'd think.

The florists cry when they see me coming.

I cry when they tell me they have other customers to consider.

How can they exist on such a thin gruel of passion?

I learned the hard way: flowers don't stay floral.

After a month: putrefaction and rot.

I swear: it smells like they shit themselves.

The stench could knock a man down.

And that’s why I sleep in there, desperately searching

for anything — anything — left in me to knock.