—After Eileen Goodman, Tumbling Clementines
A shadow, across orange clementines tumbling out of their bowl
asks the right question. One clementine, left behind, swears: I have nothing to say.
But where is she, the artist?
The pine crate slightly left of the light, she might be
the shadow lifted on elbows or the mouth, magenta & opened.
~
Later, look at the black locust, how it turrets behind a milky shade
that limits light and dark,
& the tree is separate from & we are separate from.
Except I want to tell you how my husband refused to kill a red ant
because an ant’s antennae are bent like arms at the elbows, because it might have family,
he really did say, then ferried it out on his gigantic finger.
~
& how within limits of light & dark
I am still mother, sister, lover.
Do you think it ends?
Vagina, breasts, the body as porringer, a bleeding cup?
~
Know this: The words are not leaving or left or if.
The words are: I will look for him,
his scent of magenta, the red of his ant.
~
Fact: Clementines are seedless if grown in isolation.
~
My words are seeds.
If when leaves no apart from the other.
My mouth, red & hunted.
I have said it:
When he dies. When.
_____
Previously published by The Indianapolis Review, Winter 2019/
Woodmere Art Museum
Read the Museums | Read the Art | Read the Contributors | Contributor Bios