Greta R. Cunningham
The night ripens,
its flesh yellowing into a morning
you pick with deft hands–
Something for us to share,
like the orange you’re rolling between your palms.
Devil’s hour, you say, glancing at the clock.
It’s almost 5.
I don’t tell you that the devil’s hour is 3,
an hour we’ve left behind with whatever conversation
spiraled into this one
Devil’s hour, you say,
and I don’t tell you that I disagree–
We are learning, surely,
but not like they did in the garden.
It isn’t a forbidden fruit that you’ve passed me,
that I’m splitting with the nail of my thumb.
I watch its contour fall away, watch the pieces peel from each other–
Coming apart has its purpose,
And we’re practicing it.
Naked truths fall from stained lips, and we catch them
with sticky fingers,
while the dawn sheds its seeds on the floor.
We will sit beneath its tree again tomorrow and
make a mess of the meal that makes meaning–
You will pick,
and I will peel.
Greta R. Cunningham is a sophomore in Medill.
