Lisa Zimmerman

After Pablo Neruda

What if the inside of a tangerine is not orange?

The way blood is not red until God’s outside breath

huffs on it to make it rage and pour. Maybe the inside

of a tangerine is filled with corridors of sleep

or the ruins of an ancient kingdom. Perhaps the skin

wraps around a soundless ocean where sugar sparkles like sand.

When I peel its puckered armor and bite into a tangy wedge

I taste the dream of a tree and sunlight rushing

from crown to root, how all its electric branches glow

with dangling orange moons.

Small Ode to the Tangerine

Winter, hurricane season,

the line at the post office,

the pap smear, the crying spell,

the distance between prayer

and the answer,

the answer. Also, Corgies,

Chihuahuas, Shetland ponies,

stirrups on a kid’s saddle.

Anger after watching the news,

the time between kisses

but not necessarily the kisses,

or the marriage. Not that.

Things that Should be Short

Lisa Zimmerman’s poetry and fiction have appeared in many journals including Florida Review, Poet Lore, and Cave Wall. Her collections include The Light at the Edge of Everything (Anhinga Press), The Hours I Keep, and Sainted (Main Street Rag). She is a professor of Creative Writing at the University of Northern Colorado.