Geraniums

By Carmine Dandrea

No geraniums, please.
I want no geraniums—
those funereal flowers found
with their greeny smell
casually erect in pink clay pots
dotting cemetery lots.

I'll have none, please.
Those blown petals parted
by each vagrant breeze.
No geraniums, please.

Next only, in proximity
with deadly death,
to gardenias' anemia—
old faded odor
sifting silently
from ancient ladies' breasts.

So, no geraniums, please. I'll have none, please.
If to avoid a family feud,
I'm pressed to choose,
a few chrysanthemums
would freshly do.

But, for God's sake,
no geraniums, PLEASE.