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I stand at the window,

watch you cut peonies out back—

two days past the date

of our son’s death.


We survived another year,

numbed our way

through the day we never

mark on calendars.


Bouquet in hand, you walk

to the kitchen. I listen

to Piazzolla's Oblivión,

let bass and bandoneón


lace the air of our circling,

the dance we trace

on the floor of fading years—

even as you sigh


and arrange your flowers,

as you weep

before this thing of beauty,

this one life that is ours.

Published in The Atlanta Review, Fall 2015

Poetry issue, Vol. XXII, No. 1,

as International Publication Prize Winner.

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