The dead piled up, thick, fragrant, on the fire escape.
My mother ordered me
again, and again, to sweep it clean.
All that blooms must fall.
I learned this not from the Tao,
but from
high school biology.
Oh, the contradictions of
having a broom and not a dustpan!
I swept the leaves down,
down through the iron grille
and let the dead rain over
the Wong family’s patio.
And it was Achilles Wong
who completed the task.
We called
her:
The-one-who-cleared-away-another-family’s-autumn.
She blossomed, tall,
benevolent, notwithstanding.
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