Squeeze

In his canvas bag, the pair
of skates could’ve been a valentine.

It’s February. I slice across the rink
thinking of blood oranges:
the squeeze, his hands,
the clockwise rotation of the juicer.

He follows my motion on ice
the way I know he’ll follow me home.

And again, I’m angry as only
an other woman can be angry
when her last triple salchow
of the day ends in a fall, a bruise.

His thin figure in the bleachers
chips my concentration.

Like a head cold. Fruit pulp.
That stubborn clog in the drain.

Arlene Ang

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