Each Day I Undress
[Each Day I Undress]
a clementine, using my small green
ceramic knife, a ritual
the morning needs to be complete—
I sit and look out, light
a candle against darkness and despair,
peel off the thick pebbly skin
to get down to fruit. Then pulling apart
sections, discarding the pith
or any stringy bits, I slowly place
each wedge in my mouth.
I become a tongue, a being that tastes—
relishing the juice, feeling thin
membranes yield. For those few
minutes I think of nothing,
inhabiting tastebuds and mouth.
It’s how I train myself
to disappear into the shagbark
hickory, the scarred maple,
the viburnum just about to flower.
In the moment, I’m inside one
of its buds, branch-tip quivering,
a tight knot of white and red,
knuckle size, a coiled energy about
to burst into petalled pale
balls, most likely tomorrow—wafting their scent
toward our bedroom windows
that I’ve left carelessly open, letting
each particle of scent in.
PATRICIA CLARK is the author of Self-Portrait with a Million Dollars, her sixth book of poems, and three chapbooks. Read more.
“Each Day I Undress” first appeared in Third Coast.