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.