issue 34 > poetry > teeter

Your mother kept a vase
a bouquet of silk flowers
under a spot light
on the polished wooden table
in her entrance hall.
The first thing you saw
when you came to call.

She dusted them daily.
It was an expensive arrangement.
People who rarely visited
thought they were real,
but you knew better.






Also by Alice Teeter:

Fake Flowers, I
Panes