dyed carnations

by robin schiff

 

There’s blue, and then there’s blue.

A number, not a hue, this blue

is not the undertone of any one

but there it is, primary.

I held the bouquet

in shock and cut the stems at a deadly angle.

I opened the toxic sachet of flower food

with my canine and rinsed my mouth.

I used to wash my hands and daydream.

I dreamed of myself and washed

my hands of everything. Easy math.

Now I can’t get their procedure

at the florist off my mind.

The white flowers arrived! They overnighted

in a chemical bath

and now they have a fake laugh

that catches like a match

that starts the kind of kitchen fire

that is fanned by water.

They won’t even look at me.

Happy Anniversary.