The trellis between her garden
and her new neighbour’s garden
is heavy with passion flower,
honeysuckle and roses, so that
only rare glimpses can be seen through it —
a blue flower, a splash of grass,
a dark cuff. She calls out politely
to welcome him to the neighbourhood.
Weeks later, she calls out to him again
and, slowly, emboldened by invisibility,
she hears herself offering confidences —
her fears, guilts and indecisions.
It must be like a confessional, only sunnier
and without penances. She thinks she hears him
breathing attentively, but then there is
the muffled sound of his back door closing.
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