Another Composted Poem

by Emma Sheiman


Wendy Cope lives in empty orange peels.
She becomes juice, brimming in the concave skins
like small, pulpy rivers or a smattering
of sticky ponds.

I collect the bits of her
in a pile and arrange the ragged pieces, watch her embody
          a bird, a bicycle, a whole orange—
imagine bridging the gaps with needle and thread.

I cannot bring myself to sew her in place,
to stop one shape from swirling into the next.
Tomorrow, she will form hieroglyphs in the compost bin
and I will peel another orange, and behold it well.


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