If it's not the eggs, it would have been tomatoes.
Just the pronunciation of oval makes my upper

lip relax. When I think of apples, men pass through
my mind like buffaloes stampeding through a ford.

The house reverts to what it was: French windows
whose arches recall the backs of many lovers.

I was knifed by a surgeon while I slept in a square
room furnished with tables whose corners spread scabs

around my knees. Often mirrors broke when I was alone.
Shards have a way of devouring skin. Under my navel

I am empty as the fishbowl in my kitchen. Pets make me
uneasy. The balcony is crammed with cyclamens wilting

in their pots. On my sill, cherry stones await planting.
I try to save for tomorrow, throw nothing away.

Outside, the wheels of baby carriages creak worse than
the gurney that rolled me towards sharp objects.

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Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy where she edits the Italian edition of Niederngasse. Her poetry has recently been published in Literary Potpourri, Poet's Canvas, Smiths Knoll (UK), BiMagazine.org, Tattoo Highway and Mudlark. An e-chapbook of her poetry, Dirt Therapy, is being hosted by Slow Trains.
E-mail: aumelesi at libero dot it  

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