I miss the big navels when they are not in season,
but almost any orange will do when I really want to see God.
But it must be done right, this seeing, this apprehension of the
Lord of the Universe, Lord of All the Worlds, both seen and
unseen….
First I feel how firm the orange is, rolling it in my hands,
the hands of an artist, the hands of a poet, and now the stiff
and cracked hands of an old man–
then I slice it in half and look at its flesh, its brightness,
its moistness, its color–
if the insides beckon, urging my mouth to bite,
I first cut each half into half and then slowly, carefully–
as all rituals demand– I put one of the cut pieces between
my longing lips and gradually, with a sort of grace, bite
into the flesh of the sacrificial fruit.
I feel the juice flow down my throat and recall the taste of
every orange I ever had, even in my childhood—or so it
seems, with this little miracle of eating an orange.
As I finish absorbing, still slowly and gracefully, its flesh,
the last bit of what had been one of the myriad wonders
of the world, I look at the ragged pieces of orange peel
and I see poetry– or God– it’s really the same thing,
isn’t it?
