by Elizabeth De Furia
A Beltracchi in My Bedroom
silk flowers seem to love the sun
as they are spun out from the turf
and petals, perfumed, (smell like perfume?
or which came first: … ?
It doesn’t matter; after all,
art forgery is still art and
the petals) still smell sweet.
I water my silk roses,
and I don’t care if it’s a sin.
Hi Elizabeth, I hope I’m not infringing… I just read this.
It took me a minute, but I can see what you might have meant in this poem: the beauty in artifice and forgery of the genuine, because the genuine is so hard to find in honesty. You might be blasphemous for watering fake flowers, but at least they give you an idea of what it might be like for real.
I don’t know if you care to remember me or even know who this is, but thanks again for all you shared with me. Your personhood has been felt. I hope you’re okay. Really. Keep writing.
— “g.l.” O.
(p.s.: the new St. Vincent album is brilliant.)