Arlene Ang

IN MEMORIAM

A plastic tulip in a vase -- it's red
like lipstick on your glass, the shoes you wore
when late for work -- and bread crumbs on the floor:
the neighbor's tabby bristles to be fed.

My black suit has been washed and pressed, a thread
hangs from its sleeve: the funeral's at four;
last time we both forgot to lock the door.

Your garden pansies droop, a mouse lies dead
on our rattan bench. I dress, the dim
bulb in the room like walnut-coffin sky.
A button rolls away; I clutch the air.

The porch is bathed in sun, unlikely hymn
for canceled spring. The floorboards creak on my
way out. Too tight, I feel old fabric tear.

Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy where she serves as an editor at Italian Niederngasse. Her work has previously appeared in Stirring, 2River View, Verse Libre Quarterly, Triplopia, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Midwest, Drexel Online Journal, Melic Review, and Tryst, among others.