Peter with Oranges

I’ll pivot.
Thanks for the oranges and advice.
The citrus of it drips on the latest patch of
my same old rash.

These ones are tart, picked early for
importing, maybe.
But they boost me.

You, picky Peter in the pond,
treading water and explaining the
one cylinder diesel engine while
I-as-Lorelai swam naked circles around
you, pond moss in my dreadlocks, in
your beard. Hikers on the arteries diverted eyes.

We are organs of that larger hungry animal.

You can be the brain, if it would please you.
I’ll be the lungs–belly lungs,
the goddess of the yoga breath.
And words, for me, will cease to be symbols,
just handsome howls and organic grumps.

A corsage over a splinter.

–Wren Tuatha

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