Fierce With Electric Love

The oranges in The Godfather presage death,
but they say no one meant for that to happen.

I eat oranges in slices, fat and short, small versions
of Brando’s own as he plays with the Don’s grandsons,

another death hovering on the doorstep. The mother
of my friend moves in circles from absent-minded

to forgetful, while my friend returns to cleaning bodies,
changing diapers like we did for our kids, who still

ask us as they head out the door if they’ll need keys
when they get home. This year, a bowl of oranges

sits on my counter all winter long. One friend’s daughter
learns to drive, but mine is waiting for a calmer week,

a calmer month, the end of the school year, maybe
for people to be safer than they are.

In The Godfather, bowls filled with oranges started
as pops of color meant to brighten up dark scenery,

but all that murder made them into omens. In our small
city, we are lucky to live in walkable neighborhoods,

though I have to drive someone somewhere most days.
This winter, I’ve eaten an orange almost every day.

An old friend texts from their parent’s bedside:
Death has arrived. When I slice an orange on the counter,

I don’t use a cutting board, though I know I should.
My father postpones a surgery until his infection clears.

The tiny tears on my fingertips pop when I cut into an orange,
acid stinging like a sparkler. I am waiting for the next text,

the next phone call. I hear oranges are everywhere
in Sicily; I’ve never been. Parts of my family were

Sicilian, once, though not like in The Godfather—
ours came south, away from the others, to this river,

its growing town. Earlier in the film, the Don
buys himself oranges at a gray fruit stand, but the fruit

ends up spilled in the street while his grown son
waits, frozen, seated in his father’s dimly lit car,

too scared to stop the bullets or save his father.
My parents had kids when they were young,

but I waited longer. Today, afternoon sun breaks
through our low-slung background clouds,

and its sharp, angled light is warm as citrus.
We are always making plans for the unknown.

I tear the last bits of pith and peel apart when I separate
the orange slices. I feel young, but I’m older than

I think I am. When my friends and I were kids,
there was always a stand with an Italian-sounding name

selling oranges around the corner. When I was born,
my great-grandfather had been dead for a decade, and

no one left spoke Italian. I didn’t know he’d sold oranges
from a covered cart across the river till I had kids

of my own. Many of our parents remain in good health.
Back on the screen, the Don dies when no one is looking,

orange peel stopping up his mouth, under the vines.