by Caroline Dehart

 

 

                             An ex-boyfriend                       of mine             used to wax

poetic about this old             dive. I told him flowers         wouldn’t grow there. He

quipped they just needed an eight year old with a sickly hued thumb and a shriveled lima bean

then they could take the windowsill to some science fair. I never had a tick tick tick tick in my

uterus until my doctor told me I had a better chance of getting an actual clock in there

than a baby. The tick tick tick tick used to haunt me like Captain Hook’s

Crocodile. Now I just hear flowers

wouldn’t

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