The humidity peels like acetylene.
On the slanted light, blue herons tiptoe
on alligators. My mother squeezes
pulp from a bowl of new oranges.
Telling small lies in the fungibles.
She recalls now the tangled dance of
flyer and singer, struggling for a path
forward. Followed by the dark acts
of contrition behind closed doors.
Walls rising to collect the survivors.
Sanctified by coming-through,
They sit now in a room swallowed
by Florida heat. The dining table still
beckons for seven hands. My mother
passes the bowl around and says,
“The Honeybelles are the best this year,
no doubt about it. Here, take one.”