Apr 8, 2016
Citrus Poem
But here we are — dissecting a pomelo warmed by my car radio on Sunday and weekdays of sitting by the west window watching us move in rotation, disks among a sliding axis, gravity now propping us against the counter top, in the kitchen, admiring the thickness of the pomelo skin. As if it’s waited so long to be unpeeled. Grown swollen and fish-pink in longing. We pull it apart cell by cell. I’ve never swallowed poetry like this. These coral citrus segments could be light-moons like hearts at the beginning of things — 8 moon flips on Jupiter, says the radio, that night, the tides pulling us under the lemon tree, twisting our names into reoccurring rotation. You’re slicing me, citrus moon. This is candy, yeah, like that.