An orange is rustic in the brain.
I saw its peel burn and burn without giving
the light of fire access
to the internal light of clear
liquid, which I know from eating
lies suspended in soft umbrellas
at the crossings of juice and saliva,
juice filling in for rain, so saliva…
filling, but a person is entirely
saliva only when giving head. Nothing matters
but wetness, how much snow
one throws on the fire
while partaking in its chemical change. The peel burning,
color of molasses, tar. The job at the old library.
I stopped writing this poem
to finger the red hair accenting
your molasses-beard, tar-face.
Ode to wedding crisp poppies,
swaying sin-ward, with night. Ode to…
you say, volcanoes under my lips.
I know you, and because I know you,
I kill you, sabotaging a stop
sign that stops you from kissing
another life on your way to/
from work. Take a tour, darling, instead!
Visit street corners with ease.
Watch our first memory: tagging pinecones,
like ornithologists tag birds,
to keep track of children and Christmas
known as home-video-career.
No red hairs down there, festively.
Your waves crash on my shore, ferrying
seaweed-sleds onto my chest, and I cannot
breathe. Hygiene plummets.
The sock doubling as a gag smells of citrus
bath doused in fire. You say something
funny, and I think, OK. Then
I brush my neck and land on a vial
filled with a finely-chopped, finely-
tuned allergen. The peel dries
on your car’s dashboard, imitating an octopus.