Chrysanthemums
by Theodora Goss

These are the ragged flowers
present at every gravesite.

Imagine a cloud of petals
like a ruffled cockatoo,
like a slice of wedding cake
with the narrow end eaten,
a pile of lace with leaves
as tough as a toad’s skin,
smelling of aniseed.
We give these to the dead.

As they go into the darkness,
the heads of chrysanthemums
must light their way, like lamps.

(The painting is Bouquet of Chrysanthemums by Pierre-Auguste Renoir.)