Asphodel
“Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses.”
—James Oppenheim

Hi, I’m Asphodel, the flower of hell,
King’s spear on the Hades plain,
Queen of putting a good face on things,
your southern forget-me-not for this leg
replete with bruised root and foot rot.
(Yes, Virginia, there is a Devil and
he has a green thumb.) Those of you vested
in carnations are free to come (versus
the varieties “at last” or “to go”).
Why-Me’s take note: I’m a wicked cut.
Bad seed clichés burn me up. I thrive
on full light in my crisis garden parish.
And this backpeddling (to what?)
spells a whole host of trouble. Nothing
strange, just fleur-de-lis doused in Miracle
Grow and the occasional weed for greedy
Greek eats. We’re the infidels
in an orthodoxy house, the welcome
committee for this shitty city.
When the dead beat their horses (and do)
for refusing to chew, it’s good grief!
and leaving so soon? You’ll have to sue
if you want the thieving rose instead,
that social climbing perennial enemy.
We’ve blood enough on our hands
without fielding those pricks.

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Copyright © 2010 Angela Vogel All rights reserved
from American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission