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Mojacar Orange Groves by Tammy Armstrong the oranges themselves seen spinning like planets, elongated, assuming the natural imperfect proportion of the spherical spinning, gravitated reel. --Lie for Everything, Richard Meier (Terrain Vague) I could give them now to show we have left whole segments untouched still. The loose ones off the goat trails on the way to the pueblo same familiarity even here in spring-bruised Spain. The snow has softened back home the sun chest-thumps-- awe in carrying deep colour with me imported into our winter kitchen with its western light a plate of snow on the roads while we peel oranges at the sink. Renaults on the mountain highway: all noise carries down to the groves where wasps suffer a cold-snap paralysis and Sebastian, the grounds keeper, prunes brings bitter oranges in plastic bags to the pantry. Far from our kitchen where the birds have not yet returned nor I from these Andalucian foothills with caravans of tour buses and mopeds but I could bring you these-- a completion of sorts. A solar eclipse where we dare each other to look past the smoked glass see an astral sequoia kiln-fired. An orange a student once split for me for remembering he was from Paraguay not Uruguay where his pregnant wife waited and he drank each night prowling Vancouver for women prowling the cafeteria’s edge with his offerings. Have I ever offered you this? Valencia smooth in my hand to yours this returning to you loving how you stand naked in late afternoon light orange in your beard, on your lips: this returning . . . © Tammy Armstrong « Home | Contributor Notes » Please comment on this poem. |
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