"My Doctor Called Me," A Poem
My doctor called me very early.
A smiling woman I knew as well
And as fondly as a crafty retired grandma
Who swears by Floridian vitamin C and time away from men.
"To think," she says —
The mail's best wishes come in
Lovely sugared clementines each winter, pursed wedges lined like
Staled twin dolls anticipating green army men.
Upstate Supermarket blood oranges are bruised and raw,
Those suppliers of refrigerated backshelf-seeds
with blushed flesh to keep tepid.
I know eating them like apples looks vulgar and dumb to people,
Crimson running down my chin
I am Queen of Price Rite and Aldi, and
I will be as gluttonous as the oh so regal kings of the Renaissance
with bite marks in their fine metallic crowns and jewelry.
I know they reasoned Fruit and women do perish, after all!
And I snicker, giving pennies for change
"—an anemic girl with such sharp teeth!"