Friday, January 14, 2011

orange

orange,
simply;

an impression,
a handful
of summer;

a year cut
into four quarters.

rotund angles,
juiced nodes,
thin skin stuck in teeth.

fertile cervix,
rind pores.
the birth of taste,
light beyond visibility.

memories,
mother's terse fingers
undressing the orange,
making it easy;

rolling cloth away
from a wound,
the warmth of careful touch.

sound of knife laid
on the countertop,
fingers sharp with scent,

flaring around the fruit,
accommodating,

shiny with the
clean invisible cling
of survival.

--Anton Frost is a poet living in Grand Haven, Michigan.

No comments: