Orange’s split skin, smiling
puckered, and vibrant, stiff
as watermelon rinds,
and melted crystalline,
the crawling amber that reminds me
to make an appointment with God
and tell him he designed
the flower incorrectly.

Confess to him that the colors are all
wrong, the stems should not bend,
the petals should be immortal
so I can trace your birthmarks forever.

Risk burnt retinas to watch
how the light trips over her shoulders,
certain I am staring at the sun until
my eyes fog over, gray, and I pluck
out my eyelashes one by one.

I pray the next set of eyes will be worthy
to absorb her hypnotizing corona.
I will be o.k., I have had my fill
of beauty to last 10 lifetimes, I think
as I sit and drink her shadow like wine.