by Arlene Ang
In his canvas bag, the pair
of skates could've been a valentine.
It's February. I slice across the rink
thinking of blood oranges:
the squeeze, his hands,
the clockwise rotation of the juicer.
He follows my motion on ice
the way I know he'll follow me home.
And again, I'm angry as only
an other woman can be angry
when her last triple salchow
of the day ends in a fall, a bruise.
His thin figure in the bleachers
chips my concentration.
Like a head cold. Fruit pulp.
That stubborn clog in the drain.
Arlene Ang is the author of The Desecration of Doves (2005), Secret Love Poems (Rubicon Press, 2007) and Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture Press, 2008), co-written with Valerie Fox. She lives in Spinea, Italy where she serves as a poetry editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her writing may be viewed at www.leafscape.org.
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