There is no denying its resemblance

to your heart,

its paper-thin skin,

how it gives in

so quickly to the slightest

of pressures

from the blade.

Split, its insides fare

no better, four chambers clogged

with pulp and seed

as though in the need

to keep on, keep on,

the valves collapsed

in a flood

of what once was called

longing.

You could almost weep

for its fumbled attempts,

the way it has missed

its own mark. Relegated to the world

of stir-fries and sauce

at night it dreams

of another heaven,

lolling in the fruit bowl with the plums,

holding the light.

in the whole wooden

bowl, an orange

assured of its place

in the sky, that knows

its own curve & its hue

as the sun mirrored back.

Committed to rising

as high. Feel it.

A thin film of sweat

but it isn’t afraid

of your hunger, your thirst, your

tongue: that tremble

is desire. The wanting, wanting,

& finally the touch

so gentle its shivering pleasure

might also be called

pain.

A knife through its rind;

the readiness to be opened,

to bleed,

which is what you understand.

Its juice as refreshing

as anything the sun

might have dreamed. Taste it.

Sink in your teeth. Get

married as fast as you can.