ORANGE PEEL
this morning I feel lost
my very womb is sluggish
my glasses are smudged
my sinuses are clogged
without anchor
in the gray of this day
the cursor is pulsing
waiting for what words
I will lay next on this
sweating terry cloth robe
I feel empty and alone
tears are my companions
empty nothing to say
and not the form
this, another, morning
I look out my bedroom window
I notice the first pink buds
on the branches of the peach tree
branches beige and gray stark
I hold up my bare limbs
and feel the sap slowly rising
leaving a taste on my tongue
like the hibiscus flowers,
orange peel tea I am drinking
with wild clover honey
slingshot yellow rays not too hard
settling for what is soft arrows
purple, brown, and red they are
draw a bead on for what is wild
—from Rattle #1, 1995
