The Orange
Today I bought five cups and saucers
from the charity shop. I like them;
they remind me of the orange tulips I bought you,
of holding them underground on the Circle line.
That night you told me about the photo
of your grandfather, how after the war he cut a hole
where his chest had been so he could stay
framed on the wall in his uniform.
The next night I sat in bed and peeled an orange
so I could hold its fleshy heart up to the light;
so I could feel how heavy it had been inside its skin.
In postwar Germany the display of nazi symbols was forbidden by law. It was common practice to cut a hole in photographs of family members in uniform, in order to remove the medals so that the photo could be kept on display in the home.
The exams are over and I have some time to write. In the meantime, this is a poem I wrote for a good friend a few years ago. It's just been published in The Red Wheelbarrow, 17.
This painting of a peeled orange is by Michael Naples from Illinois, and captures the orange just how I imagined it, partly translucent, but heavy.
