I told her once that I had a poetic ambition,
that one day I would write a still-life.
Each rind-tough pore of the orange,
the texture of the skull where eyelids would be,
the entrancing bulb of an opening flower…
coarse woodgrain on the table tells the story of rain
that did not fall one summer, the flower
is given to a woman taken before July by typhoid,
the skull is my own. There are no defects in the orange,
but I starved. I never learned to like the taste of citrus.
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