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Airplane Roses

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Floral catastrophes
Usually appeared pointless.
Until bouquets of airplane roses
Well-traveled and long-abandoned
Nestled on my gritty porch swing.

Your airplane roses
Burned rugged frost with fervor.

You crumpled my rusted lock,
splintered the cantaloupe door,
concealing 2,152 stairs
like coral confetti.

You awakened the olive monster,
in the void of my neighbor’s wishing well
and incited a weary volcano.

You snapped the faux metal zipper
on my Old Navy sweatshirt.
Releasing barrel after bushel
of fresh, bloody apples.

You raised my powder-blue curtains,
allowed sunshine to sneak
into my first-floor kitchen.

Apricots taste like sour joy.

Such an iniquity;
the fashion in which
you wrote this novel.
Utilizing each morsel
of yellow freedom
grinning from your pen.

I deny regret.

Now, I dance rage,
when shock pins me
like a bowling ball.
I invite myself
to smash brick pomegranates,
to lick the heliotrope juice
on the bamboo kitchen floor.

When I enjoy breakfast-
blueberry scones and matcha tea-
I smile, with pity tugging my cheeks
at the ghostly oaks.

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