Rosalie Moffett | Two Poems
No matter how you rotate it
the room stays upside down
in the grapefruit spoon.
We can't be flipped
so easily, Spoon.
Small is the room
for error—though that’s the kind of night
it is: the wrong kind
of math for this kind of poem. The right glove
fits the left hand if you flip it over. Not so,
the grapefruit spoon whose handle
handles a orange section poorly. Poor, too, the bell
curve which can neither peal nor peel—
Can we or can’t we
say what we mean?
That we’re mean, that mean
means almost average, unexceptional, that we’ve hidden
right there, in what we say,
our saddest secrets. Though, not orange,
no—that’s pure, perfect, a name
that fits its owner like a glove, announces
secretless, its truest self!
Recall, friend, that orange is the light wave
repelled; what you eat
is all the other colors.
This is always
what they leave out
when they teach you the rules
of time and language: memory
is an absurd present
tense. Perpetual: you shield your eyes
and I run your chainsaw through driftwood
which sparks, opens, reveals
a rock. Trees, like people,
swallow incredible things. i.e. Time
heals all wounds, or Discard nothing
and you won’t be discarded. It’s true,
you will be forever
to say, to hold