A hunter
I rattle the branch
comb the bin
until I hear it fall
against the floor
it rolled softly
until it stood still
This is a blood orange
hard to peel
citrus left in
the quick of my nails
stinging
A bite
honeyed
tasteful and complete
I want another
and another
Yet you are neither
the Tarocco
the Sanguinello
or the Moro
You are harder to get
Neither saccharine
nor zesty
a trail of honey
left from my tree
to the street side
neither a hunter
nor a child
I am a man
with blood orange memories
watching them
roll on the floor
“Little by little,
wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of invisible game.”
Now there is no flavor
but I like the size of it
in my palm
When I open my hand
it is gone and
Never am I hungry
but for the search
not for the taste
And this invisible game
has nothing to do
with love.
Adam F.C. Fletcher 