Shane Signorino
On Feeling an Orange
"Which is real-
This bottle of indigo glass in the grass,
Or the bench with the pot of geraniums, the stained mattress and the
Washed overalls drying in the sun?
Which of these truly contains the world?
Neither one, nor the two together."
--Wallace Stevens
Like little ladies on display in cardboard stages
they gather shoulder close for the daily pageant;
soiled fingers smear grease on their soft cheek
leaving scar tissue easily seen under fluorescent lights.
I watched one lavish blossom of tree toil
undulate between her sisters of lesser birth,
her innocence undefiled from rotting dreams,
she could still imagine the prince & periwinkle.
One slight incision with my fingernail, light bled
from her rind into a sour puddle of juice and seed
where I wanted to splash maybe laugh with no mind,
but I was frightened, a childhood fear of drowning.
With strings of pulp left dangling from my teeth,
I awoke from this dream too vivid and full of taste
looking under my bed for a solstice rain and soil
to seed a garden in the daystar glow of my window.