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.