ORANGES

Foreword: Thank you Mr. Frank O'Hara.

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I

It is weird to write

poetry for school. Yet,

I find myself dying

to do so, trying my best

O’Hara imitation. Maybe

I should just be myself, but

can’t I only project my image

on the reflection of another

man? I suppose that was what

god did through Jesus, and

what we do through god. I find

the idea of a personal

god very appealing, oftentimes

dream about it. As I lay in

my bed and think why on

Earth would god create humanity,

a truth strikes me. It is uncanny

how the girl’s eyes become the same

color under the dim sunlight as the boy’s

sparse hair, both of which have

a little god in them. I suppose

colors don’t strike us as beautiful until

we see a sweet coincidence,

which obviously is more than

a simple occurrence: something

that is meant to happen, something

that ripened and aromatized through

a course – much like a fruit.

I find myself lying on my bed,

thinking about my god, and my

poetry assignment. I like the fact

that I wrote it, but I am not

a real poet. I can only hope

to be.

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II

I will not write twelve poems

yet

but a second deserved to be written

either by me

or by the wind

on the faces of small children

and leaves of fall that are

turning a little more

luminous everyday

the poem belongs

to the sun and the air

at least as much as the wind

-if not more-

and they too

shall sing it in grace

even before it is finished

everyone will hear it – the girl and the boy

and the girl will wangle the boy

and the boy will woo the girl

and the clouds will witness them

on Travessera de Gràcia

and before the sky can even hug them

they will be together

they will embrace the sky

and fall – but not apart

like two leaves bonded in the rain

and as they waltz nearer to the ground

and as she sees that she’s the one that is wangled

she’ll smile

it’ll be glorious

and the sun will light up her face

with the same color

that fall leaves

have.

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I cannot thank you enough.