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by Arlene Ang

Spring. Begonias wilt the way
her coats fall from hangers.
My unused gifts. I swore to move
out before the cacti unloose
their thorns. Another month
rips from the calender.
Weeds have no notion of time.

Her garden gloves insinuate
lingerie against my skin.
At least we both agreed
on one thing: transvestites
are daisies blooming overnight
into sunflowers. I still smile
at that when raking leaves.

I remember how she threw
the trowel at me, a white envelope
in her fist. Washington came
with the nine o'clock post, smelling
roughly of separation. She had a career
to consider. Bent on tending roots,
I never looked up from the flowerbed.

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