Aubade with Oranges and the Ghost of a Poet

Aubade with Oranges and the Ghost of a Poet


There are fourteen owls strung along the fence
wire, Federico. Their heads to turn to look
into each other’s eyes, then yours, Federico.

There are pale-skinned farmer boys splashing naked
in the bend of the river where it pools deep as night,
Federico. There are pale boys laughing in the water.

There are ice rings around the bold summer moon
where it spins, Federico. Above the white-skinned
birch it whirls, shedding coins about the small-fruited trees.

There are old scars upon the olive skin of the sleeping
boy, Federico. His lover sits nude beside him,
Federico, and watches his breath, like oranges, like moths.

In the morning, Federico, this will all be lost.
He will be gone from my blankets, leaving but a trace
of his scented oranges. I will breathe in those blankets,

Federico, I will spare them from the laundry’s correctives.
I will rescue his breath, his lingering image impressed
into the mattress. And with my stained hands, Federico,

remember.