The Third Secret Love Poem

by Arlene Ang

When my throat swells up, it's not a coincidence:
late nights, lemon zest, jiggers along the bar,

licking the salt off my wrist. In LA, everyone
is still waiting for a big disaster to happen.

I'm a false pessimist; all the gold necklaces
he gave me are stashed under old razor blades,

a hairblower and packed hydrophilic cotton.
I can hide my valuables from thieves and erase

these places from memory. He says my smile
reminds him of lost objects in his house,

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.