Fruit

2/6/17

. . . the inner word you want, that fugitive, unfaithful
word wed now to silence. 

—Margaret Gibson, "Forgetting"

Every night I come to see
if the orchid blossom's opened.

Night when I don't
or can't move any farther;

or when what by day I measure
in space as movement

becomes by night
more measurable in stillness;

or when what by day I measure forward
must by night be measured

back.  Tonight my body says
you're just beyond the wall.

I search and search for the chink
though I've heard the old story:

the lion, the mulberry tree.
Remember, in June:
          
               I point to a tree, saying
               these are mulberries.
               You tug a branch close for me;
               unripe pink nubs
               cascade over your hair. . .

Tonight the orchid's unfurled
just one petal.

Backward through my body comes
the story, less story now

than mourning song.
I sing it,

ripe as blood,
certainly torn apart.

Poem from a year ago this week

After the blizzard

There's the press of starfruit
and your fingers

at my mouth,
wet for the kiss

already.  Snow from pines
melts over us.

I show you the begonia

in the glass heart, I lay my ankle
in your palm.

You warm it there.