The Orangeman 

A narrative built from a picture of my great grand father 
 

My great grandfather once stood 
stood in an orchard of cherries. 

I had read his picture with the sweep of my hand. 
I was longing for home. 

The bushes there were clipped into neat squares, 
like wild things made civil by geometry 

and arranged just so. 
the grass was long gone from what remained 

of a  fertile home. 
the moon stood like a lampshade for the trees, 

its leaves mute from the silence of pain- 
and the man beside him: 

rigid as fence posts surrounding the grounds, 
white shirt starched and neck tilted to the moon. 

A horse stood nearby. 
its tail dipped under it scraggly 

frame. My grandfathers thumb was orange. 
he liked to dig into fruit without 

ever bringing it to his lips. 
he wanted the feel of something sweet 

even if it meant cracking the thing 
into halves and wasting 

the juice on the ground.