Yard Sale Organs
To see dawn’s red face, angry against a brooding
horizon. Your dowdy eyes, your tears: pearly,
lactic. Two fingers pressed to the roof
of your mouth, the prickle and the purge. I slice
oranges one after the other and barely glean
the juice from each half. Blade and butcher’s block, carrot fingers.
To cut the kitchen knife like the rest of them.