Black Paintings
Father Saturn holds me up to the sunlight,
a blood orange, once peeled and unjuiced,
a fetus with measurable vermillion veins
and pulp construction, abandoned and dried off,
a veined and transparent fetus to drool over and gorge.
But I am just a blood orange, I think, unaware
of the wronged ex, frugal shopper who weighed and abandoned me,
left this not made-in-love child on his stoop.
Once, we sat and he held me up to light, du pre stained nails into me
and peeled back my skin. He was rough with me, but I
hoped he meant love; he’s hungry now,
eyeing my innards and willing to run a parental test himself.
The world is in his hand.
He’s hungry to know if I taste like him,
if I could overtake the world like kudzu,
sprout fetuses. My autonomy tastes sweet,
not O negative, merely vitamin C and bitter.
He coddles me like a snow globe as I paint his chin red,
yet I do not feel magical.
Somewhere there is a wall in Madrid
and he looks like it, for he refuses to be overthrown.
Father Saturn holds me up to the sunlight,
a blood orange, once peeled and unjuiced,
a fetus with measurable vermillion veins
and pulp construction, abandoned and dried off,
a veined and transparent fetus to drool over and gorge.
But I am just a blood orange, I think, unaware
of the wronged ex, frugal shopper who weighed and abandoned me,
left this not made-in-love child on his stoop.
Once, we sat and he held me up to light, du pre stained nails into me
and peeled back my skin. He was rough with me, but I
hoped he meant love; he’s hungry now,
eyeing my innards and willing to run a parental test himself.
The world is in his hand.
He’s hungry to know if I taste like him,
if I could overtake the world like kudzu,
sprout fetuses. My autonomy tastes sweet,
not O negative, merely vitamin C and bitter.
He coddles me like a snow globe as I paint his chin red,
yet I do not feel magical.
Somewhere there is a wall in Madrid
and he looks like it, for he refuses to be overthrown.
Comments