An Invitation, by Andrea Kowch, 2013 The Flowers Are Dead The sunflowers are dead. I am expected to serve feed receive be grateful for it all. I am expected to see it all. Four different women wear my face. Small rodents bare their teeth and the dog's stomach snarls through his maw. I pour cream into the space beside a cup (how much more could it really hold, anyway?) christening the tablecloth the field the horizon desperate to meet my eye I am desperate to meet avoid absorb yours my many hands ready to serve stir cradle what I really want is to avenge the tablecloth the clatter grip the edges, billow the horse's bare back kick start my own sun