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Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





She desired something living
to last in my apartment,

so she bought me
an azalea bush for Valentine's Day
(a little disappointing after
the yellow package slip
directing me to my neighbor's
for a floral delivery).

When their blooms endured the month,
I gave in, watered them—
dunking the soil under the faucet.
Questioning their sunlight requirements,
I put the pot in the window,
so the leaves could photosynthesize
whatever light scrunched in
between buildings and bars.

On vacation I mused the meaning
of fuchsia flowers for us—
romanticized them into roses
that could be pressed
into tradition.  Returning,
I found brown brittle petals
fanning my kitchen floor,
and resigned myself
to let things lie the way they were.

© by Michele Reese


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