two poems by alice may connolly

And so it was that the exact same dye was added to the fabric and also into me, and my petals turned green and yellow over night, the yellow sort of bleeding out from my middle. It was the most beautiful thing the family said as I was scattered into the open casket, which the girl with the extra toe on her right foot and the bulbous eyes in the olive-coloured dress covered with a sheet of stained linen.
Well, I dunno if they’ve said it to Bud, but John and Julie said it to me a countless number of times now, but the latest one she said while she stirred the bit of wood in the pot around and around was how we’re such good stock and that our coats are that shiny and our noses are that moist and our legs slope down at the back at that perfect angle. She said when she dipped that big deep spoon into the pot and slopped the runny stuff into littler pots that they’re absolutely positive we’ll win this year, mainly because Bruno from the Allens (who wins every year on account of her exceptionally refined bone structure) got sick. They said Bruno has been acting a bit strange lately and getting really fat and they don’t know why they said it must be new feed but I know it’s because of Bud he’s been sniffing around Bruno for ages which I’m glad because that means he won’t sniff around me anymore.
Alice May Connolly writes and studies in Wellington, New Zealand. She blogs at