TANGERINES

All winter he eats tangerines,

sometimes at the table,

sometimes on a bus.

Sometimes, as he’s eating,

snow falls inside the bookcase.

Sometimes instead of eating,

he simply peels, slowly,

as if something lives within.

So he eats tangerines, all winter long,

and while eating recalls a novel

in which the heroine also brought to the table

a dish of tangerines. One kept rolling

till the end of the story.

But he can’t name the author.

He simply eats the tangerine in silence.

The peels on his windowsill rise higher.

At last an image comes, several tangerines,

in childhood, placed near his hospital bed.

His mother had found them somewhere.

Though his little brother begged one, mother refused.

He shared, but neither

would eat the last tangerine,

which stayed on the night stand.

Who knows what became of it?

So he eats tangerines all winter,

especially on snowy days, gray days.

He eats slowly, as if

there’s plenty of time,

as if he’s devouring darkness.

He eats, peels, and when he lifts his head,

snow glitters at the window.