I’ve let the blood orange you gave me
wither with longing. Its blueing
 
hue sends a strange ash around
the desk where I keep it—a reminder
 
I suppose, of winter’s frozen needling,
the warmth of our bed, the promise
 
of a spring that would surely come.
I am not sentimental enough to
 
keep an orange as an emblem
of desire. No. White-fleshed
 
and bitter, I’m fascinated by
its pith, that string that hangs
 
the meat, white cord that tethers
the segment to the spine,
 
the way the body, in repose, is held
together by muscles and tendons,
 
by an armature of bone. No.
I’m not maudlin enough to
 
remember you by the laden fruit
you plucked. It’s simply an experiment
 
in forgetting: will the blood run
through the blue, through the cage?