by Kathy D’Arcy

Mary was born twice, once,
and her sisters Mary soon after and before.
The bumps of their heads uneven the ground,

enrich the mulch of leaves
so something grows in the shape of a man,
a man always standing across the road.

When visitors come, an orange
falls from a his hard old hand,
dimple-belly, to the ground

like an invitation.
The maw in the centre of the diningroom is uncrossable
(whorls of old carpet).

The orange could be handed round
to take the heat of our pink hands,
germinate.

Mary is both so angry
that her bodies rotate at the rate of once a year.
She must surely act.

As it grows older it changes shape,
smells stronger, begins to kick;
dimple-cocoon.

The little juice-slits sustained
from a lifetime of cutting
drive many mad

but are unnecessary.
Who is the one who has broken this one
and this one but left this one alone?

Now he sees us, though we close our eyes
for the kind of fire on the inside.
He dropped it to see if it flies.

Dark whirl-holes over the edge of the sink.
The juice is the reward.
Inside, the juicy reward.

The trick is to play hide-and-seek
Until it is tricked out of hiding
And caught.

Will you come out, creature, and show your brazen wingspan?
It broke when he dropped it, whirled,
and something showed in the gap.