Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy, where she edits the Italian pages of Niederngasse (www.niederngasse.com). Her poetry has recently been published in Tattoo Highway, flashquake, The Dublin Quarterly, Ghoti Magazine, Stirring and Astropoetica. Three of her poems have been nominated for the 2006 Pushcart Prize anthology.

Monday's Poem

©Arlene Ang

Third Secret Love Poem

When my throat swells up, it's not a coincidence:
late nights, lemon zest, jiggers along the bar, salt on
my wrist. In LA, everyone is still waiting for the big
disaster. I'm a false pessimist; my money lies among

old razor blades, a hairblower and packed hydrophilic
cotton. I can hide valuables from thieves and erase these
places from memory. He says my smile reminds him
of lost objects, secret and irreplaceable. That mousetrap

under the bureau is the click I've been waiting for.
At some point, he opens the front door with my key.
There are some things I can't be entrusted to manage
alone: count sheep backwards, walk a straight line,

keep newspaper clippings in order. Something about his
eyes makes me swallow hard; I hesitate before saying no.