Saturday, 15 January 2011

Orange Days

In a morning of translucent golden light
you peeled your orange, piece by piece,
a globe in god's hands.
Each tear a continent drifting – 
discarded islands
of interest only to the ants.

With the soft mantle exposed – you smiled –
flayed flesh in your cupped hands.
(A kind of straw-tinted plasma wept
from the carelessness of your nails)
The scent of citrus in the air,
sharp and urgent,
a chemical weapon, a call to arms.

Your religion is your own –
you choose to sin.

The pious eat only apples.

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