By: Lisa Marie Basile
In the cathedral, Epimenides disrobed for me and asked if I’d like an orange. They’re sweet today – from the grove down by the sea, and I said I’d like if he’d keep quiet. Don’t open your eyes when you lay in the sun, I ask. I want to see you as a gentle sleeper; finish your orange. Hungry and fast he chews just as the Father comes sweeping in and looks with wet eyes and lips to the orange and asks can I have a half. Mid-reach, the poet's hands fly and launch the orange at a porcelain bowl so that the Father turns and sees the shards; Epimenides stands nude in the yellow light and the oranges between his legs dangle as he calls toward the priest, You are a liar! you are hungry for not that orange but for mine and the light hit the porcelain bowl where the priests' reflection shimmered sadly as he bent to eat the orange off the dirty floor
