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The hydrangeas

Janine Fraser

Dec 01 2011

1 mins

for Anne

have been holding their breath
since you brought them,
a good fist of the most

astonishing hue,
whose jug I have replenished
twice, each time half expecting

to hear a desperate gulp
as I bore their blue bobbing heads
back to my desk—

balloons of pent air
a complexion so intense
they seem to emanate the mystical

auras given to saints.
I can hardly look at them without
becoming breathless,

without feeling as if
I need to suck in a quick lung-full
for them—

tell myself,
I am not a person who
would stand by and watch another

drown, tell myself I could be
one who dives in even if
fully clothed and unable to swim.
 

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