Blood Orange

He went into the names and found the forms.



He cut the long field low and let the light



grid the grass. He brought two globes



to compare. The uncommon color of the second



 



won out. He would have peeled it, eaten it



section by section, but he insisted he conserve



the circle, because it is perfect. Skin and bitter flesh



were not to part. The seeds were safe.



 



He studied the perfusion. Then, in a tone



like paper, said, “We could never have



crafted this. Artery, capillary,



fiber, and pulp. The rind like a halo.”



 



He made him slice it to admire the shape. Yet when he held



the sliver up to the sun, it blazed and burned their voice.