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by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

My arms empty, I would bring you mallow and apricot blossoms,
      if I knew you would not cry for the wilted-ness of them, two days hence.

I would bring you bushel baskets brimming with love,
      if I thought you would not crave it from another six years, already past.

I would bring you pots of kohl and pomegranates,
      towers of silk and lumps of myrrh.

Instead I give you my widow's pension for your wedding
      knowing it will never be enough.


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