Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Blood Orange


This red
This flesh
This hesitation

This sweetness
This moisture
From warm countries

Dear Lord
Take this promise

Of pleasure
Take this

Of taste

Take this


Dry woody oranges
From hothouses in Cleveland
Picked green by nervous Hondurans
(Always on the make,
Never scoring, always missing
The kindness of the Honduran sky.)
Taste these, and know
Exactly how the Lord thy God
Made despair.

Yet teach me never
To despise the fruit.
That is hard.

And teach me never
To disbelieve,

And teach me never
To whisper, "I earned
This; this is mine!"

Father, into thy hands
I commend this orange
This fruit
That can't yet bleed.

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