No matter how careful I am with my new Miracle Blade knives, I can't help but cuss the blood out. Inasmuch as I work slowly, with deep deliberation and deftsworn dexterity, I do so seemingly to no avail.
First, my left index receives a point well taken. Yeow. I talk to myself, chiding harshly from countertop to faucet, pleading with my happy platelets to hurry and coagulate so I can finish up with the rest of the week's sliced mangoes and chunked strawberries so they can be popped into the freezer for use in my daily fruit smoothies.
Then, with even more focus and attention, I cleave the top of my left thumb near the nail as the knife pares through mangoflesh and into mine. This one is deeper and won't stop so I continue cussing and slicing, the colors running in strikingly beautiful patterns of biting watercolor onto the fruit pelts on the big yellow plate.
A title came to me in this moment. The rest followed as I shook my head and sipped fresh orange juice mixed with the fruit of my belabor.Blood & Mangoes
It is the sweet things that sting so.
What sways in ripening appellation
like tippled hips in the trees erupts
for the sake of offering all it will become,
sounding bees through the nose, wingless
in pollensong, scenting that which hums
only to be taken and partaken of.
Paring knives sip their measure
from the most careful finger
that absently reaches out
into seasons it knows nothing of;
summons red rivers from a blue
vein to smart and eddy in the absolute
orange of what slips away from the peal
of wanton mouths into the sinksilver
rinse that seduces desire for what bleeds
the palette, swirls on the uneaten plate.
Blessed is this blood and mango for they
will nourish my body in the ways I will
nurture merely the unfolding of their hungers.
Thus, in secret dulcitudes, will I live
to cut away all that remains outside myself.Joseph Gallo
May 22, 2005