She pruned on our gardenia bush
I knew that it would die
She did it in the name of tidiness
I felt tired down to my wheels
I thought of all the nights of love
under aromatic spells
she thought of broken toilets
and nighttime slop-jar spills
Gardenias have a pure white look
an almost fleshly feel
but prunes are brown and shriveled
like the constipated prune she is
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem