Picnic in July
He watches for butterflies
as I puncture a hole
through the skin
of an orange
with my thumb.
Beneath his shirt,
a birthmark
imprinted on his belly —
the tip of an arrowhead
pointing toward his navel.
Yesterday he wondered,
is a flower still a flower
when it dies?
In the parking lot beside us
a man pulls his lunch
from a brown sack inside his car.
A man alone is still a man.
A flower is a flower
from seed to petal to ground.
Just look at this orange
in our hands,
Just look at the pulp we devour.