The petals came in the mail

The petals came in the mail.
“Rose,” you’d said on the phone,
but they looked more like poppies.
They were not real.
They came in stacks,
adhered together at the edges by glue—
to save space for shipping?—I don’t know why.
I had to peel them apart,
gently, sliding the stacks
between my fingertips.
I was impatient, but it had to be done that way—
slow, if not patient—or they would tear.
Despite this feigned care, some of them frayed
around the edges.
I was tired of my task less than a quarter-way through,
but I’d promised you
I’d help make her anniversary romantic,
and I was the only one at home you trusted
to open the package in secrecy when it arrived
and air out the petals (they had a bit of a smell).
So there I was,
fetid fake petals in my fingertips,
unstacking them a few at a time
into a grocery bag filled with cut-up dryer sheets,
thinking how impractical this was,
this gesture of love,
wondering if I’d be gentle enough, someday,
to keep the disdain off my face
if anyone ever went to such perplexing lengths
to express their love for me.

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