It's simple and wooden.
The gray paint brush lines
Run down the back,
and flat along the seat.
My jowls are sunken,
my lips over to the side
I bite the inside of my cheek
in a Picasso kiss.
My forehead's relaxed,
My eyes, glint with drowning brightness,
that dim with passing shadows.
My knees buttoned up,
obscuring my lady bits from within my dress.
my toes turned in toward one another.
obscuring my lady bits from within my dress.
my toes turned in toward one another.
My elbows rest on my thighs,
and one hand bares the weight
of my heavy perspective at the moment.
I can't take my eyes off of the lavender daisy on the shelf.
The center so brightly yellow,
The petals, vibrant and soft in color at the same time.
Regal, but in an unassuming way.
So graceful, so delicate.
Alone and tilting slightly left,
in my pale pink glass vase.
She is at first so proud,
Thrilled at her chance to
fulfill her potential.
Not aware that she is no longer
connected to the ground.
That the sun which she once
stretched so tall to lift her face to,
is nothing like the cool and aloof
LED light above her,
in the ceiling.
She has no idea, that she has been cut,
That she will never grow again.
She is heading ultimately to the composte bin,
If she's lucky.
She would probably prefer that to the regular trash,
if she had a choice.
She has no idea, that she is already dead.
Though as her posture and over all mood begin to dip,
She becomes aware that it gets significantly harder,
not to bow her haloed head.
I sit there, in the gray painted chair,
knees buttoned together, head cocked to the side.
Sadly watching as the tenacious and youthful daisy,
ages so rapidly,
Her head becoming heavier and heavier,
as her awareness increases slowly,
lower and lower.
I could tell, the moment that she realized
that she was in fact dying.
That she had been dead all along.
She really gave in to gravity then.
Her stem curling up and in,
Her last effort toward life was to lean,
In the direction of the window,
Where some weak sunbeams
would shine in, a little before noon.
I have always loved flowers.
When I was a little girl, lavender daisies
were my favorite.
were my favorite.
I had bought this single daisy from a bodega,
put it in my only pale pink glass vase,
with the hope that it would brighten my mood.
But instead it only made me incredibly melancholy.
Flowers, being one of God's most pure, varied and highly stunted creations.
They are constantly being taken from their natural environment.
They are plucked from growth,
Removed from the soil and sun that feeds them.
Then admired for their smell and beauty,
fingered, picked and eventually die a slow death,
In the homes of those who never fully internalize
their beauty and sacrifice.
I finally consider leaving my post,
Feeling as though I properly
experienced the life and death process
of my lovely lavender friend.
I chose her.
I appreciated her beauty for days, in mirthless repose.
And I observed as she gave up, and died.
In shallow grief,
I stood up, leaving the gray chair.
I walked heel to toe,
over to my defeated and gorgeous friend.
With calculated care,
I pulled her body from the pale pink glass vase,
I smelled her moldy stem,
Kissed her almost crispy petals,
and contemplated how to best honor her life.
A man may have promptly thrown her out in her decayed state,
And gone out immediately to buy a fake one.
But I chose neither to keep her pressed in a bookmark,
or let her decompose with the egg shells and used condoms.
I said a prayer and lowered her into the sink,
Down into the garbage disposal.
And I couldn't even muster up a single tear,
as I flipped on the switch and heard her body,
get ripped apart repeatedly
by the shining and murderous metal.
JESS COFFMAN
Caffeinated, Processing and Fine,
Your Jess
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