I am not a vase

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You may call me
ugly,
strange,
or wrong,
but do NOT
call me
a vase!

I am not some silly flowerpot,
all dainty and frilly and absolutely
useless.
See my sides,
they bulge toad-green;
my body is shiny, iridescent,
an oil-spot.
Fill me with water,
with blood,
smash me against the bricks
but let me stand squat and strong,
odd and blue and bronze
and do not ridicule me with your stupid posies.

And do not dare to call me a pitcher!
For I
am a swan.
A thousand colors,
smearing, blurring,
over the soft glass
do not choke my graceful throat
with lemonade.

Too, I am no rosewater sprinkler.
I am a rose!
A lily, elegant,
pointed purple petals,
twisting green stem,
blue glass roots, don’t lie for
I am no sprinkler.

A vase, you say? A goblet? Ha!
For I am a noble lady’s fan.
Fine fluted body,
cool and lovely
to shade my lady from the sun’s
bright rays.





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