Blood Orange

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.

 

Suffering Love Laughing At Myself is the first poetry book of Adam Fletcher Sasse and is available at https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1492244651/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thefreechildp-20&camp=1789&creative=9325&linkCode=as2&creativeASIN=1492244651&linkId=f44cc486f1762084454de9227854ae90

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