Bitter oranges hang from trees
Like solitary dervishes
Spinning through balmy Mediterranean nights…
Comfortably numb oranges
Overdosed on their own bitterness
Stoned inside their sulfuric-marigold skins
Until,
Just a little pin-prick
Wakes them up
And they come pouring out
In drops of oil and pectin
And lemon and ginger and beer juice
Coming back to life –
Inside a blue ceramic pot
With their piths and pips floating in muslin
A dialectical mushing up of
Smooches and bruises and pulp and rind and juices
Painter, dreamer, scientist, poet, prisoner
Guitar strings, smoke rings – smoldering together
Into a compote of melting fruit…
Bottled up into tiny glass jars
Are apocalyptic whirlpools
Of love cooked over fire…
And
My memories taste in my mouth
Like bitter oranges, preserved during sad nights
Filled with stars…
