My Cart 
Login 

Previous

How to Savor
by
Judith Heron


Next
 

Navel oranges are in the market now.
I choose two, gulp at a dollar a piece.
I put a whole one into Moroccan soup.
The other, I zest into bowls of rice pudding,
into rhubarb sauce – first of the season. Then

I cut it in half – it’s big as a grapefruit – juice
it on an old hand juicer. Lift the hollowed
halves to my lips, suck the bits of flesh.
Juice gathers on my chin, my cheeks,
my nose is covered with orange.

I go to the kitchen window, pull down
the blind. How could I let passersby –
the night – see such intimate gluttony?


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author’s permission.

 




Judith Heron lives in Victoria on Vancouver Island. She has been published in a number of chapbooks edited by Patrick Lane, and in three anthologies: A Murder of Crones (Ptarmigan Press 2007), The Wild Weathers: a gathering of love poems (Leaf Press 2012), and Poems from Planet Earth (Leaf Press 2013). Though she has always lived on the west coast of Canada, Judith cherishes the homestead traditions of her prairie heritage. She relishes the rituals of becoming an elder, which include permission to visit and work in variuos gardens and to spend more time "with the birds."

   

 

 


Post New Comment:
Lori Levy:
Appealing depiction of what you do with the oranges.
Posted 08/20/2019 05:36 PM
KevinArnold:
Fun. Interesting enjambments, especially Then / I and juice / it, which bind the poem tighter, at least to my ear.
Posted 08/20/2019 11:46 AM
Glen Sorestad:
Very nicely done, Judith. The orange becomes very sensuous in your hands.
Posted 08/20/2019 10:31 AM
Jancan:
Such a lovely, appealing poem!
Posted 08/20/2019 09:50 AM


Contents of this web site and all original text and images therein are copyright © by Your Daily Poem. All rights reserved.
The material on this site may not be copied, reproduced, downloaded, distributed, transmitted, stored, altered, adapted,
or otherwise used in any way without the express written permission of the owner.