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"Memorial" by Cesca Janece Waterfield

I once threw petals
I'd picked in our yard
from the window
of the blue car he drove.
It was April, maybe June.
The sweetspire had spread
its wispy arms like wands.
The radio played love
and fury without interruption. He weaved
around the bicycles in the road
and pulled from beneath the seat
a cone of green tissue
wrapping a rose for me.
Tonight I remember that day alone,
for my sanction,
for good.
Inside this room I am older now.
I want to lean in to the flowers
cut yesterday at their fleshy stems,
watered for a while in the vase.

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