Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Blood Orange

I

This red
This flesh
This hesitation


This sweetness
This moisture
From warm countries


Dear Lord
Take this promise


Of pleasure
Take this


Imagination
Of taste


Take this
Away.



II


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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