The white daylily opens its throat

in the middle of the sympathy bouquet 

and sends out its pungent note. 
The roses and carnations can't compete, 

but they would rather smell like vanilla
or melted crayons. I read somewhere 

that perfume was invented in order to mask 
the smell of bodies that couldn't bathe 

every day or didn't want to. I wish 
I didn't have to taste the cocktail 

of acid and bile that swirls around 
my insides when I'm driven 

to the apex of anxiety, but I haven't 
learned to pretend disinterest. 

The flowers are a composition that means 
we're beautiful because we're going 

to perish. They're paper-white, eggshell-
white, ivory beginning to yellow. And 

even after they're gone I smell their 
sorrowful musk in my hair, on my fingers.