and mildly laxative: the instructions on her
box of mints state a maximum of ten on any
given day, perhaps fifteen. Lymphomas
evolve, like a continuous sifting through
the papers her son left on the night stand:
the latest news on young stars spotted 0.26
light years away from a giant black hole,
letters from someone signed D,
Mendelssohn's Songs without Words --
something she insisted she never heard
him play -- and this piano, cracked where
the vase fell that morning she realized he was
never coming home. She never told me
what to do with his winter clothes or her
glass figurines, that oak stump in the backyard.
Here the numbers on a digital clock flick
like eyes or dots in the horizon. Is there
any mourning 11:59 now that it's 12 o'clock?
Arlene Ang is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being a collaborative work with Valerie Fox, Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture Press, 2008). She lives in Spinea, Italy where she serves as staff editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her work may be viewed at www.leafscape.org.